JBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


?3 


/'rom  o  a(ee!  en^ravt'n^. 


MRS.   SARAH   T.   BOLTON. 


POETS    AND    POETRY 
OF    INDIANA 

A  REPRESENTATIVE  COLLECTION  OF  THE  POETRY  OF 

INDIANA   DURING  THE   FIRST   HUNDRED  YEARS 

OF  ITS  HISTORY  AS  TERRITORY  AND  STATE 

l800    TO    I9OO 

COMPILED  AND  EDITED 
BY 

BENJAMIN    S.    PARKER 

AND 

ENOS   B.    HEINEY 

WITH    PORTRAITS 


SILVER,    BURDETT   AND   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  BOSTON  CHICAGO 


Copyright,  1900, 
By  SILVER,  BUEDETT  AND  COMPANY. 


They  learned  to  sing  in  Nature's  solitude, 
Among  the  free  wild  birds  and  antlered  deer ; 

In  the  primeval  forest  and  the  rude 
Log  cabin  of  the  Western  pioneer. 

***** 

They  loved  the  whisper  of  the  leaves,  the  breeze, 
The  rune  of  rivulets,  the  trill  of  birds, 

And  their  best  songs  were  echoes  caught  from  these, 
Voices  of  Nature  set  to  rhymed  words. 
***** 

A  few  were  gifted  with  transcendent  power, 
As  God's  evangels  sent  to  loose  or  bind, 

Others  inherited  a  lesser  dower, 

But  all  were  fitted  for  the  work  assigned. 

Sarah  T.  Bolton  {adapted). 


PREFACE. 

It  has  been  the  aim  of  the  compilers  and  editors  of 
this  work  to  make  a  representative  collection  of  the 
poetical  writings  of  Indiana  people,  native  and  resident, 
embracing  the  century  which  spans  the  life  of  the  com- 
monwealth as  Territory  and  State.  The  task  has  not 
been  prosecuted  in  a  narrow,  provincial  spirit,  or  with 
the  notion  that  mere  verse  can  be  dignified  into  poetry 
and  given  fame  by  the  partiality  of  local  collectors.  It 
is  believed  that  these  selections  generally  will  be  found 
to  possess  those  vital  qualities  of  force,  suggestiveness, 
and  beauty  which  are  the  essentials  of  true  poetry.  At 
the  same  time  the  design  of  the  volume  has  not  per- 
mitted an  adherence  to  a  severely  critical  standard.  A 
goodly  number  of  the  authors  represented  have  won  a 
national  reputation,  but  many  names  also  appear  that 
are  only  locally  known,  and  some  whose  memory  has 
faded  since  our  fathers  and  mothers  fell  asleep.  If 
these  are  not  all  to  be  ranked  among  the  greater  poets, 
yet  they  have  sung  a  few  songs  very  sweetly,  and  have 
helped  to  make  the  honorable  literature  of  the  State. 

A  single  poem,  or  its  equivalent  in  two  shorter  ones, 
from  each  of  five  prominent  poets  —  John  Hay,  Joaquin 


VI  PREFACE. 

(Cincinnatus  Heine)  Miller,  Will  Wallace  Harney, 
James  Newton  Mathews,  and  John  James  Piatt  —  has 
been  included  in  the  volume,  because  of  the  fact  that 
these  authors  were  born  in  Indiana,  though  the  work 
which  has  redounded  so  much  to  their  renown  has  been 
performed  in  other  States.  All  the  other  poets  repre- 
sented have  done  a  portion  of  their  work,  at  least,  while 
citizens  of  the  State. 

The  editors  have  felt  the  delicate  nature  of  their 
undertaking,  and  have  striven  to  carry  it  through  with 
absolute  impartiality ;  yet  it  is  quite  probable  that  they 
have  failed  to  represent  some  whose  work  would  entitle 
them  to  recognition.  Any  suggestions  that  may  enable 
them  to  correct,  in  a  future  edition,  the  errors  of  omis- 
sion or  judgment  into  which  they  may  have  fallen  will 
be  gratefully  received.  Meantime,  they  beg  leave  to 
make  most  cordial  acknowledgments  to  the  living 
authors  represented  in  this  volume,  and  to  the  friends 
and  relatives  of  those  poets  who  have  passed  away,  for 
their  full  and  hearty  cooperation;  also  to  the  literary 
people  of  the  State  generally;  and  to  the  publishers 
of  copyrighted  poems,  to  whom  credit  is  given  in  the 
proper  connections,  for  privileges  and  favors  extended. 

B.  S.  P. 
E.  B.  H. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS 

of  : 

PATRIOTISM. 

PAGE 

The  Banner  of  Beauty        .         .         .     Minnie  T.  Boyce  . 

3 

E  Pluribus  Unum 

George  W.  Cutter 

3 

Indiana 

Lee  0.  Harris 

6 

Liberty      .... 

John  Hay 

.       8 

The  Drums 

Charles  L.  Holslein 

9 

Coming  Half-way       .         , 

it                         u 

IO 

Fallen  Heroes    . 

Benjamin  Davenport  House 

ii 

"  Present  Arms  !  " 

«<                  <<               <i 

12 

Thanksgiving  and  Prayer 

Benjamin  S.  Parker     . 

14 

Decoration  Day  on  the  Place 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

17 

The  Man  with  the  Musket 

.     Howard  S.  Taylor 

18 

The  Soldier  of  Peace 

<«              (i 

21 

Old  Glory  at  Peking  . 

E.  S.  L.  Thompson 

23 

At  Lincoln's  Grave     . 

Maurice  Thompson 

24 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg 

Will  H.  Thompson 

26 

The  Bond  of  Blood    . 

<(                          M 

29 

The  Old  Sergeant 

Forceythe  Willson 

32 

In  State     .... 

U                       (( 

39 

POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

An  Idle  Hour Granville  M.  Ballard  . 

43 

My  Little  Neighbor   . 

.     Margaret  Holmes  Bates 

44 

A  Little  Girl's  Visit    . 

.    Minnie  T.  Boyce 

45 

Patticake   . 

Charles  Dennis     . 

47 

Baby's  Boat  Song 

.    May  W.  Donnan 

48 

Little  Baby  Emily 

II                          II 

49 

Answered  . 

.     Alfred  Ellison 

50 

My  Lady  just  over  the  Way 

.     Mary  Hockett  Flanner 

51 

The  Salve  of  the  Sandman 

a              11                 « 

1                4                                                                                         • 

52 

Blue  Gentian 

.     Elizabeth  E.  Foulke 

53 

Sleep,  Little  Sweetheart 

i 

, 

S.  IV.  Gillilan      . 

54 

vu 


via 


CONTENTS. 


Little  Boy  Blue 

A  Lullaby .... 

Little  Brown  Hands  . 

"  Fot  would  you  take  for  Me?" 

Tribute  to  a  Child      . 

A  Requiem 

Granny's  come  to  our  House 

Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's     . 

The  Lost  Kiss    . 

Come  Back,  Little  Children 

Six  Little  Feet  on  the  Fender 

Baby's  Serenade 

The  Patter  of  Little  Feet   . 

The  Lost  Child  . 


D.  M.Jordan 
Esther  Nelson  Karn 
Mary  Hannah  Krout 
Silas  B.  McManus 
Or  an  K.  Parker  . 
Robert  E.  Pretlow 
James  Whitcomb  Riley 


Cornelia  Laws  St.  John 
u  u        a       << 

George  Stout 
Susan  E.  Wallace 
Elizabeth  Conwell  Willson 


POEMS   OF   HOME. 


Grandfather 

A  Cottage  Portrait 

Longing  for  Home     . 

Lost 

New  England     . 

The  Warden  of  the  Stairway 

The  Hoosier's  Nest    . 

The  Cottage 

When  She  Came  Home 

Deserted    .... 

On  Crossing  the  Alleghanies 

The  Green  Hills  of  my  Fatherland 

POEMS    OF 

Moonlight  on  the  Lake 
Compensation     . 
At  Seventeen     . 
Robin's-egg  Blue 
As  we  Treasure 
Love's  Prayer    . 
Woman  and  Artist 
Passing 


Albion  Fellows  Bacon   . 

Clarence  A.  Buskirk     . 

Sarah  T.  Bolton  . 

Allan  Simpson  Botsford 

Henry  W.  Ellsworth     . 

Elijah  Evan  Edwards 

John  Finley  . 

James  B.  Afarlindale    . 

Gavin  Payne 
John  JV.  Taylor     . 

Laura  M.  Thurston 

«  u 

SENTIMENT. 

.     Albert  Charlton  Andrews 
.     Marie  Z.  Andrews 

Granville  M.  Ballard 
.     Margaret  Holmes  Bates 

G.  Henri  Bogart  . 
.  Mattie  Dyer  Brills 
.     Alice  Williams  Brotherton 


CONTENTS. 

ix 

PAGE 

Kalmia      .... 

.    Jerome  C.  Burnett 

■        I05 

Piloted       .... 

.     Emma  Ar.  Carleton 

.        IO5 

Bubbles      .... 

a                 « 

.        IO6 

In  the  Golden  World 

«                 « 

.        IO6 

Isabel  Lee 

.     M.  Louisa  Ckitwood 

.        IO7 

Chanson    .... 

.     Ida  May  Davis     . 

.        IO9 

Hope  —  Memory 

«<       it          tt 

.     no 

My  Mother's  Easy-Chair    . 

.     Sidney  Dyer 

.     in 

Things  yet  to  Be 

.     Alfred  Ellison 

.     112 

To-morrow 

.     S.  W.  Gillilan      . 

.     114 

To  Viola  in  Heaven  . 

.    Jonathan  W.  Gordon    . 

•     "5 

Jimmy's  Wooing 

William  Wallace  Harney 

116 

Leander  to  Hero 

.     Be?ija»iin  Davenport  //oust 

-     118 

Viverols      .... 

.     David  Starr  Jordan 

120 

Rosemary  .... 

.     D.  M.Jordan 

122 

Love's  Coming  . 

.     Richard  K.  Lyon 

123 

A  Fancy     .... 

.      Albert  W.  Macy 

124 

The  One  that  Died    . 

.     Heltie  Athon  Morrison 

125 

Do  I  love  Him? 

.     Mary  E.  Nealy     . 

126 

The  Little  Shoe 

It                  <i 

127 

The  Old  Bouquet 

.     Edwin  E.  Parker 

128 

A  Toast  to  Brown  Eyes 

Gavin  Payne 

129 

"  Come,  go  a  Piece  " 

.     Alonzo  Rice  . 

130 

The  Picture  that  hangs  on  the  \ 

Vail  .     Peter  Eishe  Reed  . 

132 

Sabbath  Chimes 

Olive  Sanxay 

i34 

Thinking  of  Her 

George  Stout 

135 

Mother's  Love  . 

.      W.  D.  Wallace     . 

136 

Mother's  Spirit  .... 

.     Elizabeth  Comvell  Willson 

i37 

POEM! 

I  OF  NATURE. 

Morning    .... 

.     Marie  L.  Andrews 

141 

The  Prophet      . 

.     Albion  F.  Bacon    . 

141 

The  Snow-Birds 

.     R.  G.  Ball    . 

143 

Midsummer 

.     M.  E.  Ban  la 

144 

My  Native  Woods 

.     Bessie  Johnson  Bellman 

146 

Dusk          .... 

tt              tt                  a 

i47 

The  Sweet  South  Wind 

.     Horace  P.  Biddle  . 

148 

Mont  Blanc 

.     Sarah  T.  Bolton   . 

149 

CONTENTS. 


The  Summer  Storm   . 

The  Ragged  Regiment 

Magnolia   .... 

Marsh -Mallow   . 

The  Clouds         .         .         . 

The  Iron-Weed 

The  Sweet  o'  the  Year 

The  Wood  Thrush     . 

When  the  Leaves  come  sailing 

The  West  .... 

The  Thunderstorm     . 

The  Spider  Elf . 

To  a  Ruin 

My  Native  Stream     .         . 

The  Star  and  the  Sea 

Mount  Ranier    . 

The  Bonny  Brown  Quail    . 

The  Battle  of  the  Winds  and  the 

The  Watermelon 

The  Dying  Day 

Evening  at  Ardrossan 

The  Wistful  Days 

Bob  White 

White  River 

Stubble      . 

Old  Brown's  Head 

The  Day's  Burial 

A  Pastoral 

The  Old  House  Fly 

June  Roses 

The  Wind  Patrol 

Christmas  in  the  Pines 

The  Bonnie  Brown  Bird  in  the 

berry  Tree  . 
Apostrophe  to  the  Sun 
Rainy  Days  at  the  Farm 
Indian  Summer 
The  March  Frosts 


Down 


Corn 


Mul 


PAGE 

Louise    Vickroy  Boyd    . 

152 

Alice  Williams  Brotherton 

153 

Jerome  C.  Burnett 

154 

«                              M 

155 

Clarence  A.  Buskirk     . 

156 

Kate  M.  Cap  linger 

157 

Emma  N.  Carleton 

158 

Hannah  E.  Davis 

159 

William  T.  Dennis 

160 

Amanda  L.  R.  Dufour 

162 

Jtdia  L.  Dumont . 

164 

John  Gibson  Dunn 

165 

Elijah  Evan  Edwards  . 

166 

Jerome  Bonaparte  Girard 

168 

Jonathan  W.  Gordon    . 

169 

Frank  W.  Hamed 

170 

Lee  0.  Harris 

171 

U                      it 

174 

Edwin  S.  Hopkins        . 

.     176 

Ben  R.  Hyman     . 

177 

Narcissa  Lewis  Jenkinson 

178 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

180 

Annie  Fellows  Johnston 

181 

Josie  V.  H  Koons 

,     182 

Mary  Hannah  Krotit  . 

183 

Jennie  G.  Kinley 

185 

Frances  Locke 

.     186 

James  B.  Martindale    . 

.     187 

James  Newton  Mathews 

188 

Hettie  Athon  Morrison 

.     191 

Meredith  Nicholson 

.     192 

u              « 

194 

Rebecca  S.  Nichols 

•     195 

Richard  Owen 

■     197 

William  W.  Ffrivimer 

.     198 

John  W.  Shockley 

,     201 

Evaleen  Stein 

.     203 

CUJN1 

£JN15. 

XI 

PAGE 

The  Marshes      ..... 

Evaleen  Stein 

204 

Honeysuckles     .... 

William  B.  Vickers 

206 

To  the  Ohio  River     .         . 

Bessie  H.  Woolford 

207 

SONGS  AND   SONNETS. 

Song  of  the  Sea         .... 

Robert  H.  Brewington  . 

211 

The  Edge  of  the  Woods     . 

Jethro  C.  Culmer  . 

212 

In  September     .... 

«              « 

213 

The  Red  Bird  in  Winter    . 

u                a 

213 

Evening  Song    .... 

Ida  May  Davis     . 

214 

Affirmation          .... 

Orpheus  Everts     . 

215 

Garfield  and  Lincoln 

n                 a 

215 

Inspiration          .... 

Elizabeth  E.  Foulke 

2l6 

Easter  Hymn     .... 

u                     a 

2l6 

A  Sonnet 

.     Edwin  S.  Hopkins 

217 

Grant          ..... 

Benjamin  Davenport  IIousi 

■      2l8 

Were  it  but  True 

a                          a                     n 

219 

Revealment        .... 

U                              it                        U 

219 

An  Irish  Love  Song  . 

.     Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

220 

To                        .... 

.      William  W.  H.  Mc  Curdy 

221 

A  Sonnet  ..... 

Freeman  E.  Miller 

222 

Wherefore  ? 

Daniel  L.  Paine  . 

222 

Fragrance           .... 

Benjamin  S.  Parker     . 

223 

Midnight  Song  of  the  Mocking  Bird 

Robert  E.  Pretlow 

224 

Calling  the  Cows 

Herman  Rave 

.      225 

A  Country  Scene 

Alonzo  Rice 

226 

To  June     ..... 

.     Renos  H.  Richards 

227 

Tan 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

228 

Genius        ..... 

Olive  Sanxay 

228 

Heart  Song         .... 

.     Evaleen  Stein 

229 

Nirvana      ..... 

Howard  S.  Taylor 

23O 

The  Wabash       .... 

Maurice  Thompson 

23O 

The  Songs  we  Sing    .... 

Ollah  P.  Toph       . 

231 

Song 

Lew  Wallace 

232 

Kapila        ..... 

«<                 M 

232 

My  Song 

Susan  E.  Wallace 

233 

Unuttered  Poems 

.     W.  De  Witt  Wallace     . 

235 

A  Harvest  Song 

,     Louisa  Wkkersham 

236 

Xll 


CONTENTS. 


IN   DIALECT. 


Some  Way  or  'Nother 

Autumn 

The  Heavy-sot  Man  . 

Owed  to  Turkey 

Wher'  the  Ole  Folks  Is 

Bachelor's  Hall 

"  Dig  clem  Dan'line  Greens !  " 

To  James  Whitcomb  Riley 

The  Difference  . 

Polly-pods 

The  Flicker  on  the  Fence  . 

"Pap's  come  back  ter  Indiany' 

"  Stirrin'  Off  "    . 

Nothin'  to  Say   . 

The  Theng 


PAGE 

G.  Henri  Bogart 

241 

Noah  J.  Clodfelter 

242 

Richard  Lew  Dawson  . 

244 

Charles  Dennis     . 

245 

Alfred  Ellison 

247 

John  Finley  . 

248 

Mary  Hockett  Planner 

249 

Willis  Wilfred  Foivler 

250 

S.  W.  Gill/Ian      . 

252 

Silas  B.  Mc Mantis 

253 

<(                 « 

255 

William  W.  Pfrimmer 

257 

Joseph  S.  Reed 

259 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

261 

Henry  W.  Taylor 

263 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Two  Views         .... 

Marie  L.  Andrews 

267 

The  Old  Church 

Mrs.  Albion  Felloivs  Bacon  . 

267 

In  Quiet  Hours 

Margaret  Holmes  Bates 

268 

Only  a  Dream    .... 

<<              (<           « 

269 

Poetry 

Horace  P.  Biddle  . 

270 

Quatrains  ...... 

<<             << 

270 

If  I  were  the  Light  of  the  Brightest 

Star 

Sarah  T.  Bolton  . 

271 

My  Teachers  and  Hearers 

st                  a 

272 

Paddle  your  own  Canoe 

<(                  « 

273 

Youth  and  Age .... 

Ethel  Bowman 

275 

The  Lost  Hope 

,     Louise    V.  Boyd    . 

276 

The  Immortality  of  the  Soul 

Albert  Fletcher  Bridges 

277 

In  His  Name     .... 

.     M.  Sears  Brooks  . 

279 

Vanquished        .... 

«             tt 

280 

Unawares  ..... 

Alice  Williams  Brotherton   . 

281 

On  a  Fly-leaf  of  Shakespeare     . 

Clarence  A.  Buskirk     . 

282 

In  Happy  Plight 

Emma  N.  Carleton 

282 

Portrait  of  a  Lady 

a                « 

283 

CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


283 

My  Secret          . 

it                    H                          i< 

284 

Tongue,  not  Spirit 

(I                    <(                          it 

285 

Through  Life     . 

.     Emily  Thornton  Charles 

286 

287 

289 

Memory's  Banquet     . 

Will  Cumback 

290 

Song  of  Steam  . 

George  IV.  Cutter 

292 

294 

Fountains  of  Song 

.     Richard  Lew  Dawson  . 

295 

The  Haunting  Face  . 

it               it              a 

297 

Burial  of  the  Beautiful 

.    John  B.  Dillon 

299 

300 

Give  Back,  0  Conquering  Time 

!        .     Amanda  L.  R.  Dufour 

301 

Better  Late  than  Never 

.     Sidney  Dyer 

303 

304 

3°5 

a                <( 

306 

Advertisement  for  a  Wife  . 

.    John  Fin  ley  .... 

308 

Willtam  Dudley  Foulke 

309 

11                         If                       «< 

3" 

Counting  the  Cost 

.     Strickland  W.  Gillilan 

313 

313 

Apostrophe  to  Milton 

.    Jonathan  W.  Gordon    . 

315 

The  Interpreter 

.     Lee  0.  Harris 

316 

.     Lrene  Boynton  Hawley 

318 

Religion  and  Doctrine 

.    John  Hay      . 

320 

Form  Worship  . 

.     Enos  B.  Heiney    . 

321 

.     Benjamin  Davenport  House 

323 

324 

At  a  Tenement  Window    . 

.     Annie  Fellows  Johnston 

325 

"  The  Way  of  the  World  " 

,     Dulcina  M.Jordan 

326 

Men  told  me,  Lord    . 

.     David  Starr  Jordan 

328 

To  the  Genius  of  the  West 

.     Lsaac  H.  Julian    . 

329 

.     Lsaac  Kinley 

330 

Doubt        .... 

.    J.  V.  LI.  Koons     . 

33i 

Two  Plowmen    . 

ti            ii 
.         .                                    .         .         • 

33i 

The  Vain  Kite  . 

ii            "          .         .         . 

332 

XIV                                             CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Piper's  Lay 

.     Harvey  Porter  Layton  . 

•     333 

A  Mystery          .... 

,     Albert  W.  Macy  . 

•     334 

A  Fancy    ..... 

.     Zerilda  McCoy 

•     335 

The  Search  for  Truth 

William  W.  H.  Mc  Curdy 

•     337 

Life 

Josephine  W.  Mellette   . 

•     339 

The  Great  Discoverer 

Joaquin  Miller 

■     339 

The  Mothers  of  Men 

U                     ti 

•     341 

St.  Brandan's  Isle 

Mary  E.  Nealy     . 

•     342 

The  Test  of  Faith 

William  P.  Needham   . 

•     344 

Shadow  Lines    .... 

.     Meredith  Nicholson 

•    345 

The  Horns          .... 

a                     « 

•    345 

Unmapped          .... 

u                    « 

•    346 

Autobiography  of  the  Republic  . 

John  C.  Ochiltree 

•     347 

Da  Capo    ..... 

Daniel  L.  Paine  . 

■    349 

At  Elberon         .... 

<<               u 

>     35i 

Hail  and  Farewell 

Benjamin  S.  Parker     . 

•    352 

The  Empty  Nest 

u                       « 

•    353 

The  Little  Tunker  Bonnet 

(<                   « 

•    354 

Behind  the  Returns   . 

Edwin  E.  Parker 

•    356 

The  Mower  in  Ohio  .         .    *    . 

John  James  Piatt . 

■    357 

Content      ..... 

,     Robert  E.  Pretlow 

.    361 

Ends  of  a  Reverie 

a                        « 

.    362 

Life  is  so  Fleet  ..... 

Maude  M.  Redman 

.    363 

The  Poet-zone 

Peter  Fishe  Reed  . 

•    363 

The  Harp  of  Gold      . 

John  S.  Reid         .         , 

-    365 

A  Star  and  a  Wish                      ,        , 

Renos  H.  Richards        . 

•    369 

Dante 

John  Clark  Ridpath      . 

>    369 

Ecce  Homo 

u          «              « 

•    37° 

The  Crowning   ..... 

«          «             « 

-    37i 

Who  Knows? 

Harry  J.  Shellman       . 

374 

Charles  Lamb 

A.  E.  Sinks  .         .         , 

376 

Venice 

«          « 

... 

378 

The  Blacksmith          .... 

Hubbard  M.  Smith 

378 

Dead  Blossoms           .... 

Solomon  P.  Stoddard    . 

380 

A  Child  of  the  Universe     .        .        . 

Juliet  V.  Strauss  .         , 

38i 

Hidden  Fires     ..... 

«               <« 

383 

Hesperides 

Martina  Swafford        . 

384 

Mid-life 

Henry  W.  Taylor 

386 

CONTENTS. 


XV 


The  Hyksos 

Henry  W.  Taylor 

387 

Paradise     . 

Howard  S.  Taylor        , 

388 

The  Crusader's  Tomb 

John  N.  Taylor    . 

389 

The  Tender  and  True 

it              « 

390 

Epicurus    . 

,     Minnetta  T.  Taylor     . 

392 

The  Campagna  . 

U                               « 

393 

The  Trombone  . 

Tucker  Woodson  Taylor 

395 

Old  Ben  to  his  Violin 

E.  S.  L.  Thompson 

398 

Atalanta    . 

Maurice  Thompson       , 

■    399 

Diana                                    , 

a                       a 

400 

The  Quest 

Ollah  P.  Toph 

401 

My  Valentine     . 

William  B.  Vickers 

404 

Faith 

.     Luther  Dana  Waterman 

405 

Philosophy  and  Poetry 

K                 <(                    « 

406 

An  Autumn  Reverie  . 

,     Hattie  L.  Westcott 

407 

Distrust  —  Faith 

L.  May  Wheeler   . 

408 

Illusions     . 

it                      H 

409 

The  Magic  Pitcher     . 

,     Elizabeth  Conwell  Willson 

409 

The  Village  Graveyard 

tt                        «                     M 

411 

An  Ode  to  Sleep 

,     Newton  A.  Trueblood   , 

412 

INDEX    OF   AUTHORS. 


Andrews,  Albert  Charlton.           page 
Moonlight  on  the  Lake 97 

Andrews,  Mrs.  Marie  L. 

Compensation 98 

Morning 141 

Two  Views 267 

Bacon,  Mrs.  Albion  Fellows. 

Grandfather 75 

The  Prophet 141 

The  Old  Church 267 

Ball,  Mrs.  Rebecca  G. 

The  Snow-Birds 143 

Ballard,  Granville  Mellen. 

An  Idle  Hour 43 

At  Seventeen '98 

Banta,  Mrs.  M.  E. 

Midsummer 144 

Bates,  Mrs.  Margaret  Holmes. 

My  Little  Neighbor 44 

Robin's-egg  Blue 100 

In  Quiet  Hours 268 

Only  a  Dream 269 

Bellman,  Mrs.  Bessie  Johnson. 

My  Native  Woods 146 

Dusk 147 

Biddle,  Horace  P. 

The  Sweet  South  Wind 148 

Poetry 270 

Quatrains 270 

Bogart,  G.  Henri. 

As  we  Treasure 101 

Some  Way  or  'Nother 241 

Bolton,  Mrs.  Sarah  T. 

Longing  for  Home 77 

Mont  Blanc 149 

If  I  were  the  Lightof  the  Brightest  Star  271 

My  Teachers  and  Hearers    ....  272 

Paddle  your  own  Canoe 273 

Botsford,  Allan  Simpson. 

Lost 73 

Bowman.  Miss  Ethel. 

Youth  and  Age 275 

xvii 


Boyce,  Mrs.  Minnie  Thomas.  page 

The  Banner  of  Beauty 3 

A  Little  Girl's  Visit 45 

Boyd,  Mrs.  Louise  Vickroy. 

The  Summer  Storm 152 

The  Lost  Hope 276 

Brewington,  Robert  H. 
Song  of  the  Sea 211 

Bridges,  Albert  Fletcher. 
The  Immortality  of  the  Soul     .     .     .  277 

Britts,  Mrs.  Mattie  Dyer. 

Love's  Prayer 101 

Brooks,  Mrs.  Maria  Sears. 

In  His  Name 279 

Vanquished 280 

Brotherton,  Mrs.  Alice  Williams. 

Woman  and  Artist 102 

Passing 103 

The  Ragged  Regiment 153 

Unawares 281 

Burnett,  Jerome  C. 

Kalmia 105 

Magnolia 154 

Marsh-Mallow 155 

Buskirk,  Clarence. 

A  Cottage  Portrait 76 

The  Clouds 156 

On  a  Fly-leaf  of  Shakespeare    .     .     .  282 

Caplinger,  Miss  Kate. 

The  Iron- Weed 157 

Carleton,  Mrs.  Emma  N. 

Piloted 105 

Bubbles 106 

In  the  Golden  World 106 

The  Sweet  o'  the  Year 158 

In  Happy  Plight 282 

Portrait  of  a  Lady 283 

Catherwood,  Mrs.  Mary  Hartwell. 

Failure 283 

My  Secret 284 

Tongue,  not  Spirit 285 

Charles,  Mrs.  Emily  Thornton. 
Through  Life .286 


XV111 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Chitwood,  Miss  Mary  Louisa.  page 

Isabel  Lee 107 

Her  Poem 287 

Clodfelter,  Noah  J. 

Autumn 242 

CULMER,  JETHRO  C. 

The  Edge  of  the  Woods 212 

The  Red  Bird  in  Winter       .     .     .     .213 

In  September 213 

Life 289 

Cumback,  William. 

Memory's  Banquet 290 

Cutter,  George  W. 

E  Pluribus  Unum 3 

Song  of  Steam 294 

Davis,  Mrs.  Hannah  E. 
The  Wood  Thrush 159 

Davis,  Mrs.  Ida  May. 

Chanson i°9 

Hope  —  Memory no 

Evening  Song 214 

The  Bard 294 

Dawson,  Richard  Lew. 

The  Heavy-sot  Man 244 

Fountains  of  Song        295 

The  Haunting  Face 297 

Dennis,  Charles. 

Patticake 47 

Owed  to  Turkey 245 

Dennis,  William  T. 

When  the  Leaves  come  sailing  down     160 

Dillon,  John  B. 

Burial  of  the  Beautiful 299 

Donnan,  Mrs.  May  W. 

Baby's  Boat  Song 48 

Little  Baby  Emily 49 

Blind 3°° 

Dufour,  Mrs.  Amanda  L.  R. 

The  West 162 

Give  Back,  O  Conquering  Time    .     .  301 

Dumont,  Mrs.  Julia  L. 

The  Thunderstorm 164 

Dunn,  John  Gibson. 

The  Spider  Elf 165 

Dyer,  Sidney. 
My  Mother's  Easy-Chair      .    .     .     .111 
Better  Late  than  Never 303 

Edwards,  Elijah  Evan. 
The  Warden  of  the  Stairway      ...     83 

To  a  Ruin 166 

The  Poet 3°4 


Ellison,  Alfred.  page 

Answered 50 

Things  yet  to  Be 112 

Wher'  the  Ole  Folks  Is 247 

Ellsworth,  Henry  W. 

New  England 80 

Everts,  Orpheus. 

Affirmation 215 

Garfield  and  Lincoln 215 

Azrael 305 

Fantasia 306 

Finley,  John. 

The  Hoosier's  Nest 85 

Bachelor's  Hall 248 

Advertisement  for  a  Wife      ....  308 

Flanner,  Mrs.  Mary  Hockett. 

My  Lady  just  over  the  Way  ...  51 
The  Salve  of  the  Sandman  ....  52 
"  Dig  Dem  Dan'line  Greens  !  "     .     .  249 

Foulke,  Miss  Elizabeth  E. 

Blue  Gentian 53 

Inspiration 216 

Easter  Hymn 216 

Foulke,  William  Dudley. 

Clouds 309 

Sapphics 31X 

Fowler,  Willis  Wilfred. 
To  James  Whitcomb  Riley  ....  250 

Gillilan,  Strickland  W. 

Sleep,  Little  Sweetheart 54 

To-morrow 114 

The  Difference 252 

Counting  the  Cost 313 

Girard,  Jerome  Bonaparte. 

My  Native  Stream 168 

Gookins,  Samuel  B. 
Purity 313 

Gordon,  Jonathan  W. 

To  Viola  in  Heaven 113 

The  Star  and  the  Sea 169 

Apostrophe  to  Milton 315 

Harned,  Frank. 

Mount  Ranier 170 

Harney,  William  Wallace. 

Jimmy's  Wooing 116 

Harris,  Lee  O. 

Indiana 6 

The  Bonnie  Brown  Quail  .  .  .  .171 
The  Battle  of  the  Winds  and  the  Corn  174 
The  Interpreter 316 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


xix 


Hawley,  Mrs.  Irene  B.                        page 
Flotsam ^8 

Hay,  John. 

Liberty 8 

Religion  and  Doctrine 320 

Heiney,  E.  B. 

Form  Worship 321 

Holstein,  Charles  L. 

The  Drums g 

Coming  Half- Way  ....  .     .     10 

Hopkins,  Edwin  S. 

The  Watermelon 176 

A  Sonnet 217 

House,  Benjamin  Davenport. 

Fallen  Heroes n 

"  Present  Arms!  " 12 

Leander  to  Hero 118 

Grant 218 

Were  it  but  True 219 

Revealment 210 

Alter  Ego 323 

Hubbard,  Horace  F. 
A  Cynic 324 

Hyman,  Benjamin  D. 

The  Dying  Day ijj 

Jenkinson,  Mrs.  Narcissa  Lewis. 

Evening  at  Ardrossan 178 

Johnson,  Robert  Underwood. 

The  Wistful  Days 180 

An  Irish  Love  Song 220 

Johnston,  Mrs.  Annie  Fellows. 

Bob  White r8i 

At  a  Tenement  Window 325 

Jordan,  David  Stark. 

ViveVols I20 

Men  told  me,  Lord 328 

Jordan,  Mrs.  Dulcina  Mason. 

Little  Boy  Blue 55 

Rosemary I22 

"  The  Way  of  the  World  "  .     .     .    .  326 

Julian,  Isaac  H. 

To  the  Genius  of  the  West  ....  329 

Karn,  Esther  Nelson. 

A  Lullaby 56 

Kinley,  Isaac. 

Karma 330 

Kinley,  Mrs.  Jennie  G. 
Old  Brown's  Head 185 


PAGE 

.  182 

•  331 

•  33i 

•  332 

•  57 

•  183 

■  333 
,  186 


Koons,  Mrs.  Josie  V.  H. 

White  River 

Two  Plowmen 

Doubt 

The  Vain  Kite 

Krout,  Mary  Hannah. 

Little  Brown  Hands     .     .     . 

Stubble 

Layton,  Harvey  Porter. 
The  Piper's  Lay .... 
Locke,  Mrs.  Frances. 

The  Day's  Burial 

Lyon,  Richard  K. 

Love's  Coming 12, 

Macy,  Albert  W. 

A  Fancy I24 

A  Mystery 334 

Martindale,  James  B. 

The  Cottage 87 

A  Pastoral j87 

Mathews,  James  Newton. 

The  Old  House  Fly j88 

McCoy,  Mrs.  Zerilda. 

A  Fancy 33J 

McCurdy,  William  W.  H. 

To 

The  Search  for  Truth  .... 

McManus,  Silas  B. 

"  Fot  would  you  take  for  Me  ?"    .     .     58 

The  Flicker  on  the  Fence     ....  253 

Polly-Pods 255 

Mellette,  Mrs.  Josephine  W. 

Life 339 

Miller,  Freeman  E. 
A  Sonnet 222 

Miller,  Joaquin. 

The  Mothers  of  Men 339 

The  Great  Discoverer 341 

Morrison,  Mrs.  Hettie  Athon. 

The  One  that  Died 125 

June  Roses 191 

Nealy,  Mrs.  Mary  E. 

Do  I  love  Him? 126 

The  Little  Shoe 127 

St.  Brandan's  Isle 342 

Needham,  Will  P. 

The  Test  of  Faith 344 

Nichols,  Mrs.  Rebecca  S. 

The  Bonnie  Brown  Bird   in  the  Mul- 
berry Tree 195 


221 
337 


XX 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


Nicholson,  Meredith.  page 

The  Wind  Patrol 192 

Christmas  in  the  Pines 194 

Shadow  Lines 345 

Unmapped 346 

The  Horns 348 

Ochiltree,  John  C. 
Autobiography  of  the  Republic     .     .  347 

Owen,  Richard. 
Apostrophe  to  the  Sun 197 

Paine,  Daniel  L. 

Wherefore? 222 

Da  Capo 349 

At  Elberon 351 

Parker,  Benjamin  S. 
Thanksgiving  and  Prayer     ....     14 

Fragrance 223 

"  Hail  and  Farewell  " 352 

The  Empty  Nest 353 

The  Little  Tunker  Bonnet    ....  354 

Parker,  Edwin  E. 

The  Old  Bouquet 128 

Behind  the  Returns 356 

Parker,  Oran  K. 

Tribute  to  a  Child 59 

Payne,  Gavin. 

When  She  came  Home 88 

A  Toast  to  Brown  Eyes 129 

Pfrimmer,  William  W. 

Rainy  Days  at  the  Farm 198 

Pap's  come  back  ter  Indiany     .     .     .  257 

Piatt,  John  J. 

The  Mower  in  Ohio 357 

Pretlow,  Robert  E. 

A  Requiem 60 

Midnight    Song    of    the    Mocking 

Bird 224 

Content 361 

Ends  of  a  Reverie 362 

Rave,  Herman. 

Calling  the  Cows 225 

Redman,  Mrs.  Maude  Moses. 

Life  is  so  Fleet 363 

Reed.  Joseph  S. 

Stirrin'  Off 259 

Reed,  Peter  Fishe. 
The  Picture  that  hangs  on  the  Wall  .  132 
The  Poet-Zone 363 

Reid,  John  S. 
The  Harp  of  Gold 365 


Rice,  Alonzo.  page 

Come,  go  a  Piece 130 

A  Country  Scene 226 

Richards,  Renos  H. 

To  June 227 

A  Star  and  a  Wish 369 

Ridpath,  John  Clark. 

Dante 369 

Ecce  Homo 370 

The  Crowning 371 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb. 
Decoration  Day  on  the  Place    .     .     .17 
Granny's  come  to  our  House    ...     61 

Old  Aunt  Mary's 63 

The  Lost  Kiss 64 

Pan 228 

Nothin'  to  Say 261 

Sanxay,  Miss  Olive. 

Sabbath  Chimes 134 

Genius 228 

Shellman,  Harry  J. 

Who  Knows  ? 374 

Shockley,  John  W. 

Indian  Summer 201 

Sinks,  A.  E. 

Charles  Lamb 376 

Venice 378 

Smith,  Hubbard  M. 
The  Blacksmith 378 

Stein,  Miss  Evaleen. 

The  March  Frosts 203 

The  Marshes 204 

Heart  Song 229 

St.  John,  Mrs.  Cornelia  Laws. 
Come  Back,  Little  Children  ....     66 
Six  Little  Feet  on  the  Fender   ...    67 

Stoddard,  Solomon  P. 
Dead  Blossoms 380 

Stout,  George. 

Baby's  Serenade 69 

Thinking  of  Her 135 

Strauss,  Mrs.  Juliet  V. 

A  Child  of  the  Universe 381 

Hidden  Fires 383 

Swafford,  Mrs.  Martina. 

Hesperides 384 

Taylor,  Henry  W. 

TheTheng 263 

Mid-Life 386 

The  Hyksos 387 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XXI 


Taylor,  Howard  Singleton.  page 

The  Man  with  the  Musket    .     .     .     .     18 

The  Soldier  of  Peace 21 

Nirvana 230 

Paradise 388 

Taylor,  John  Newton. 

Deserted 89 

The  Crusader's  Tomb 389 

The  Tender  and  True 390 

Taylor,  Miss  Minnetta  Theodora. 

Epicurus 392 

The  Campagna 393 

Taylor,  Tucker  Woodson. 
The  Trombone 395 

Thompson,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  S.  L. 

Old  Glory  at  Peking 23 

Old  Ben  to  his  Violin 398 

Thompson,  Maurice. 

At  Lincoln's  Grave 24 

The  Wabash 230 

Atalanta 399 

Diana 4°° 

Thompson,  Will  H. 
High  Tide  at  Gettysburg      ....     26 
The  Bond  of  Blood 29 

Thurston,  Mrs.  Laura  M. 

On  Crossing  the  Alleghanies     ...     90 
The  Green  Hills  of  my  Fatherland     .     92 

Toph,  Mrs.  Ollah  P. 

The  Songs  we  Sing 231 

The  Quest 401 

Trueblood,  Newton  A. 
An  Ode  to  Sleep 4" 


Vickers,  William  B.  page 

Honeysuckles 206 

My  Valentine 404 

Wallace,  Gen.  Lew. 

Song 232 

Kapila 232 

Wallace,  Mrs.  Susan  E. 

The  Patter  of  Little  Feet 70 

My  Song 233 

Wallace  W.  DeWitt. 

Mother's  Love 136 

Unuttered  Poems 235 

Waterman,  Luther  Dana. 

Faith 405 

Philosophy  and  Poetry 406 

Westcott,  Mrs.  Hattie  M. 

An  Autumn  Reverie 407 

Wheeler,  Mrs.  L.  May. 

Distrust  — Faith 408 

Illusions 4°9 

Wickersham,  Miss  Louisa. 

A  Harvest  Song 236 

Willson,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Conwell. 

The  Lost  Child 72 

Mother's  Spirit 137 

The  Magic  Pitcher 409 

The  Village  Graveyard 4" 

Willson,  Forcevthe. 

The  Old  Sergeant 32 

In  State 39 

Woolford,  Mrs.  Bessie  H. 

To  the  Ohio  River a°7 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Mrs.  Sarah  T.  Bolton  . 

Maurice  Thompson 
James  Whitcomb  Riley 
Elijah  Evan  Edwards  . 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson 
Lee  O.  Harris 
Evaleen  Stein 
General  Lew  Wallace 
Silas  B.  McManus 
William  W.  Pfrimmer  . 
Annie  Fellows  Johnston 
Meredith  Nicholson 
John  Clark  Ridpath     . 
Minnetta  Theodora  Taylor 


Frontispiece 

FACING  PACE 
.     24 

64 

.     84 

.    128 

.   172 

.   204 


236 


258 

292 

324 
346 
37° 

394 


xxni 


POEMS    OF    PATRIOTISM. 


The    Banner    of   Beauty. 

MRS.    MINNIE   T.    BOYCE. 

O  drapery  of  a  nation  grand  ! 
O  emblem  of  a  poet's  land  ! 
Forever  shine  through  weal,  through  woe, 
Through  all  the  heaven-sent  winds  that  blow ! 

Protect  the  hearts  that  round  thee  beat, 
Inspire  them  from  thy  high  retreat 
With  noble  courage,  leal  and  true  ; 
God  save  our  dear  Red,  White,  and  Blue  ! 


E   Pluribus    Unum. 

GEORGE  W.    CUTTER. 

THO'  many  and  bright  are  the  stars  that  appear 
In  that  flag,  by  our  country  unfurled  ; 
And  the  stripes  that  are  swelling  in  majesty  there, 
Like  a  rainbow  adorning  the  world  ; 
Their  light  is  unsullied  as  those  in  the  sky 
By  a  deed  that  our  fathers  have  done ; 
And  they  're  leagued  in  as  true  and  as  holy  a  tie, 
In  their  motto  of  "  Many  in  one." 

3 


4  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

From  the  hour  when  those  patriots  fearlessly  flung 

That  banner  of  starlight  abroad, 

Ever  true  to  themselves,  to  that  motto  they  clung, 

As  they  clung  to  the  promise  of  God  ; 

By  the  bayonet  traced  at  the  midnight  of  war, 

On  the  fields  where  our  glory  was  won, 

O  perish  the  heart  or  the  hand  that  would  mar 

Our  motto  of  "Many  in  one! " 

'Mid  the  smoke  of  the  contest,  the  cannon's  deep  roar, 

How  oft  it  has  gathered  renown  ; 

While  those  stars  were  reflected  in  rivers  of  gore 

When  the  Cross  and  the  Lion  went  down. 

And  though  few  were  the  lights  in  the  gloom  of  that 

hour, 
Yet  the  hearts  that  were  striking  below 
Had  God  for  their  bulwark,  and  truth  for  their  power, 
And  they  stopped  not  to  number  the  foe. 

From  where  our  Green  Mountain  tops  blend  with  the 

sky, 
And  the  giant  St.  Lawrence  is  rolled, 
To  the  waves  where  the  balmy  Hesperides  lie, 
Like  the  dream  of  some  prophet  of  old, 
They  conquered,  and  dying  bequeathed  to  our  care, 
Not  this  boundless  dominion  alone, 
But  that  banner  whose  loveliness  hallows  the  air, 
And  their  motto  of  "  Many  in  one." 

We  are  "  Many  in  one  "  while  there  glitters  a  star 
In  the  blue  of  the  heavens  above; 


E   PLURIBUS   UNUM.  5 

And  tyrants  shall  quail  'mid  their  dungeons  afar, 

When  they  gaze  on  that  motto  of  love. 

It  shall  gleam  o'er  the  sea,  'mid  the  bolts  of  the  storm  — 

Over  tempest  and  battle  and  wreck  — 

And  flame  where  our  guns  with  their  thunders  grow 

warm, 
'Neath  the  blood  on  the  slippery  deck. 

The  oppressed  of  the  earth  to  that  standard  shall  fly, 

Wherever  its  folds  shall  be  spread ; 

And  the  exile  shall  feel  't  is  his  own  native  sky 

Where  its  stars  shall  float  over  his  head ; 

And  those  stars  shall  increase  till  the  fullness  of  time 

Its  millions  of  cycles  has  run  — 

Till  the  world  shall  have  welcomed  its  mission  sublime, 

And  the  nations  of  earth  shall  be  one. 

Though  the  old  Alleghany  may  tower  to  heaven, 

And  the  father  of  waters  divide, 

The  links  of  our  destiny  cannot  be  riven 

While  the  truth  of  those  words  shall  abide. 

Then  oh,  let  them  glow  on  each  helmet  and  brand, 

Tho'  our  blood  like  our  rivers  should  run, 

Divide  as  we  may  in  our  own  native  land, 

To  the  rest  of  the  world  we  are  one. 

Then  up  with  our  flag !     Let  it  stream  on  the  air  ! 

Tho'  our  fathers  are  cold  in  their  graves, 

They  had  hands  that  could  strike  —  they  had  souls  that 

could  dare, 
And  their  sons  were  not  born  to  be  slaves. 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Up,  up  with  that  banner !     Where'er  it  may  call, 
Our  millions  shall  rally  around  ; 
A  nation  of  freemen  that  moment  shall  fall, 
When  its  stars  shall  be  trailed  on  the  ground. 


Indiana. 

LEE   O.    HARRIS. 

I   LOVE  New  England's  sea-girt  strand, 
Where,  his  Atlantic  voyage  o'er, 
The  day  steps  lightly  to  the  land, 

And  journeys  westward  from  the  shore  ; 

For  all  her  sunlit  hills  are  fair, 

And  silver-tongued  are  all  her  streams, 
And  joys  that  blest  my  spirit  there 

Still  mingle  with  my  sweetest  dreams. 

And  oft,  when  vagrant  Fancy  flings 
Her  baubles  down,  as  day  declines, 

I  hear  in  Memory's  rustling  wings 
The  singing  of  the  mountain  pines. 

But  fairer  scenes  and  softer  skies 

Await  the  later  day's  caress, 
Where  Indiana,  smiling,  lies, 

The  blossom  of  the  wilderness. 


INDIANA. 

Her  forests  spread  their  arms  to  greet 

A  rosy  flood  of  summer  air, 
And  plains  fall  languid  at  her  feet, 

O'erburdened  with  the  wealth  they  bear. 

Her  singing  streams  in  gladness  run 
Through  vocal  wood  and  flowery  lea, 

And  carry  southward  to  the  sun 

The  pearls  he  borrowed  from  the  sea. 

Triumphant  march  her  woodmen  beat 
Where  Progress  moves,  all-conquering, 

While  homesteads  rise  about  her  feet, 
Like  roses  in  the  path  of  spring. 

And,  fair  as  ocean  billows,  glide 
The  waves  across  her  harvest  plain, 

And  sweeter  than  the  murmuring  tide, 
The  rustling  of  the  golden  grain. 

O  dearer  is  our  lovely  vale, 

With  hamlets  from  the  forest  won, 

Than  all  the  pine-clad  hills,  where  trail 
The  sea-wet  tresses  of  the  sun. 

Fair  Indiana,  may  the  hand 

Of  Progress  touch  thee  but  to  bless  ; 
And  Peace  with  plenty  crown  the  land 

That  blossomed  from  the  wilderness ! 


8  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Liberty. 

JOHN   HAY. 

WHAT  man  is  there  so  bold  that  he  should  say : 
"  Thus,  and  thus  only,  would  I  have  the  sea  "  ? 
For,  whether  lying  calm  and  beautiful, 
Clasping  the  earth  in  love,  and  throwing  back 
The  smile  of  heaven  from  waves  of  amethyst ; 
Or  whether,  freshened  by  the  busy  winds, 
It  bears  the  trade  and  navies  of  the  world 
To  ends  of  use  or  stern  activity  ; 
Or  whether,  lashed  by  tempest,  it  gives  way 
To  elemental  fury,  howls  and  roars 
At  all  its  rocky  barriers,  in  wild  lust 
Of  ruin  drinks  the  blood  of  living  things, 
And  strews  its  wrecks  o'er  leagues  of  desolate  shore  — 
Always  it  is  the  sea,  and  men  bow  down 
Before  its  vast  and  varied  majesty. 

So  all  in  vain  will  timorous  ones  essay 
To  set  the  metes  and  bounds  of  liberty. 
For  freedom  is  its  own  eternal  law  ; 
It  makes  its  own  conditions,  and  in  storm 
Or  calm  alike  fulfills  the  unerring  Will. 
Let  us  not,  then,  despise  it  when  it  lies 
Still  as  a  sleeping  lion,  while  a  swarm 
Of  gnat-like  evils  hover  'round  its  head  ; 
Nor  doubt  it  when  in  mad,  disjointed  times 
It  shakes  the  torch  of  terror,  and  its  cry 


THE  DRUMS.  9 

Shrills  o'er  the  quaking  earth,  and  in  the  flame 

Of  riot  and  war  we  see  its  awful  form 

Rise  by  the  scaffold  where  the  crimson  ax 

Rings  down  its  grooves  the  knell  of  shuddering  kings. 

Forever  in  thine  eyes,  O  Liberty, 

Shines  that  high  light  whereby  the  world  is  saved, 

And  though  Thou  slay  us,  we  will  trust  in  Thee. 

The  Drums. 

CHARLES   L.    HOLSTEIN. 

HARK  !  I  hear  the  beaten  drums — their  long  roll 
Affrights  the  quiet  of  the  peaceful  air, 
And  startles  quick  memories  in  my  soul 

Of  one  who  was  both  young  and  brave  and  fair ;  — 
And  I  never  hear  the  drums  beat 
That  I  do  not  think  of  him. 

The  loud  drums  called  him  many  years  ago  ; 

When  the  struck  nation  needed  all  her  sons, 
Among  the  bravest  he  was  first  to  go, 

And  breast  the  fevered  mouths  of  hungry  guns  ;  — 
And  I  never  hear  the  drums  beat 

That  I  do  not  think  of  him. 

News  from  a  Southland  battle  came  to  me 
Of  the  soldier  who  took  my  heart  along  — 

Of  how  he  bore  himself  full  gallantly, 

Where  siren  bullets  sang  their  witching  song  ;  — 

And  I  never  hear  the  drums  beat 
That  I  do  not  think  of  him. 


10  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Life  is  but  losing  —  be  it  soon  or  late  ; 

The  foeman  marked  him  with  avenging  eye : 
Killed  at  the  front !     A  man  must  face  his  fate,  — 

The  prize  of  battle  is  to  grandly  die;  — 
And  I  never  hear  the  drums  beat 

That  I  do  not  think  of  him. 

My  heart  is  throbbing  with  a  mournful  chime, 
Calling,  calling,  and  only  echo  comes. 

The  drums !     The  drums  !     I  hear  them  all  the  time, 
The  throbbing  and  the  music  of  the  drums ;  — 

And  I  never  hear  the  drums  beat 
That  I  do  not  think  of  him. 


Coming  Half- Way. 

CHARLES  L.  HOLSTEIN. 

(67.  A.  R.  Natio?ial  Encampment  at  Louisville,  R~y., 
September,  1895.) 

ACROSS  the  beautiful  river  that  runs 
'Twixt  the  North  and  the  South  to  the  seas  afar, 
Forgetting  our  swords,  forgetting  our  guns, 
With  flags  that  are  yours  —  despite  the  war  — 
We  are  coming  half-way  to  meet  you. 

Lo,  East  is  West,  and  North  is  South, 
And  the  bravest  forget  the  soonest  of  all ; 

The  last  shot  is  wedged  in  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  the  happy  hills  echo  our  bugle  call  — 
We  are  coming  half-way  to  meet  you. 


FALLEN   HEROES.  H 

Beyond  the  gloom  of  the  Bridgeless  Stream 
The  truce  of  God  bides  with  the  dead  at  rest, 

Where  smiling  in  slumber  they  haply  dream 
Of  a  trysting-day  there,  with  a  comrade  zest,  — 
And  our  coming  half-way  to  meet  you. 

Blood  is  thicker  than  waters  or  wines ;  — 
Love  knows  its  own  by  night  or  by  day ; 

The  flames  that  flashed  down  the  battle  lines 
Burned  hate,  not  love,  and  so  half-way,  — 
We  are  coming  half-way  to  meet  you. 

Our  country  is  one,  and  our  flag  the  same ; 

The  river  is  bridged  with  our  love  for  you ; 
The  glory  is  shared,  and  there  is  no  shame, 

And  we  that  were  many,  though  now  we  are  few,  — 
We  are  coming  half-way  to  meet  you. 


Fallen   Heroes. 

BENJAMIN   DAVENPORT   HOUSE. 

I  CANNOT  think  of  them  as  dead, 
Although  beyond  our  fleshly  sight 
They  who  stood  with  us  in  the  fight 
And  followed  where  our  banner  led. 

Ah  !  writ  in  lines  of  battle  flame 
I  read  plain-worded  prophecy, 
That  through  the  ages  yet  to  be 

Our  sons  will  keep  their  fathers'  fame. 


12  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

If  comes  again  the  call  to  fight 
From  out  the  bugle's  brazen  lips, 
Forth  from  the  scabbard's  full  eclipse 

The  blade  will  flash  into  the  light. 

And  brighter  than  the  flowers  we  strew, 
In  answer  to  the  bugle's  blare, 
Will  bloom  our  banners  in  the  air 

As  sons  of  ours  to  battle  go. 


"  Present  Arms  !  " 

(An  Independence  Echo.} 

BENJAMIN   DAVENPORT   HOUSE. 

OH,  fathers  who  fired  war's  torch  at  Concord ! 
Oh,  heroes  who  fought  at  Bunker  Hill ! 
Ye  are  not  dead  in  your  place  of  resting, 
But  in  your  deeds  are  living  still. 

As  the  light  of  the  nation's  natal  morning 
Bars  the  eastern  skies  with  its  opal  hue, 

Break  your  bonds  of  sleep,  oh,  nation's  fathers, 
And  form  in  line  for  the  grand  review. 

Come  forth,  oh,  sons,  from  your  grounds  of  camping ; 

Ye  are  sleeping  deep,  but  living  still, 
Beneath  your  tents  on  the  field  of  Shiloh, 

Or  in  bivouac  at  Malvern  Hill. 


"PRESENT   ARMS!"  1 3 

Take  arms  again,  oh,  ye  tired  sleepers ; 

Form  lines  in  your  warlike  gear  arrayed ; 
March  down  through  the  years  to  later  comers, 

To  pass  in  review  in  a  peace  parade. 

From  out  the  shade  of  thy  hiding  scabbard 
Leap  forth,  oh,  sword,  with  a  bloodless  blade ; 

Let  thy  flashing  point  go  shining  skyward, 
And  fall  in  saluting  accolade. 


*t> 


Thrill  your  every  thread,  oh,  star-flecked  banner, 
From  outer  fringe  to  your  eagled  staff ; 

Pour  forth  from  your  iron  lips,  oh,  cannon, 
The  rose-red  breath  of  a  mighty  laugh. 

Oh,  brazen  throats  of  loud-braying  bugles, 
Send  forth  your  notes  of  the  gladdest  key, 

Till  the  golden  air  is  filled  with  music, 

And  stirred  to  life  by  your  peace-born  glee. 

Cleave  the  air,  oh,  fifes,  with  shriller  shrieking 
Than  warlike  wail  at  the  nation's  birth, 

Beat  the  drums  to  the  time  of  joyful  marches, 
That  ha  !  ha !  ha !  with  a  mellow  mirth. 

Oh,  bells  that  swing  in  lofty  steeples, 

By  the  sun-kissed  sign  of  peace  high  crowned, 

Spill  out,  as  ye  sway,  your  molten  music, 
Till  ye  belt  the  land  with  a  zone  of  sound. 


14  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Fall,  flags  !  for  to-day  the  white  peace  angel, 

Full  plumed,  stands  waiting  your  drooping  signs ; 

Beat,  hearts,  with  the  roll  of  high  saluting, 
Flash,  arms,  presented  along  the  lines  ! 

Reach  out  your  hands,  oh,  men  and  brothers ! 

Let  your  clasping  fingers  intertwine, 
Till  your  lives  are  linked  in  bonds  of  union, 

From  wave-washed  gulf  to  the  northern  line. 

Roar,  guns,  again,  with  a  peace  evangel ! 

Blend  gray  of  smoke  with  blue  of  sky, 
As  the  blue  and  gray  were  wrought  and  blended, 

When  the  war's  red  horror  had  passed  us  by. 

Peal  forth  again  your  notes,  oh,  bugles ! 

With  sounds  of  peace  like  rhythmic  rune, 
Salute  with  songs  the  nation's  morning, 

That  never  shall  know  an  afternoon. 


Thanksgiving   and    Prayer. 

{After  Victory.} 

BENJAMIN   S.    PARKER. 
(Nov.  24,  A.D.   1898.) 

THE  nation  bows  before  Thee,  O  Lord  of  the  shore 
and  sea ! 
Of  suns  and  constellations  and  systems  yet  to  be ; 


THANKSGIVING   AND   PRAYER.  15 

God  of  the  mighty  universe  and  Lord  of  the  guiding 

hand, 
Of  the  primal  cell  and  the  sprouting  grass,  bless  Thou 

the  waiting  land ! 

We  pray  Thee  bless  the  silences  that  fall  with  healing 

breath 
Where  late  the  surly  cannon  were  hot  with  hate  and 

death, 
And  over  the  ghastly  trenches  where  fallen  heroes  sleep 
Plant  Thou  the  seeds  of  hope  and  love,  and  solace  those 

that  weep. 

And  grant  that  all  our  victories  and  the  glory  of  our 

ships 
Hold  not  the  nation's  righteousness  in  the  thrall  of  a 

blind  eclipse, 
Till  we  shall  pray  as  the  Pharisee  with  bold,  assertive 

phrase, 
Or  put  our  pride  in  the  Master's  place  and  yield  to  it 

our  praise. 

And  grant  us,  Lord,  the  grace  to  bring  to  the  islands  in 

the  sea, 
The  sweeter  hope  and  the  larger  life  that  are  born  of 

liberty ; 
And   grant,   we    pray,    that  our  helping  hand  shall   a 

helping  hand  remain, 
And  never  grow  heavy  at  greed's  command  to  weld  the 

oppressor's  chain. 


1 6  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  now  from  liberty's  chosen   land,  where  only  the 

people  reign, 
Remove,  O  Lord,  the  pride  and  hate  and  the  love  of 

evil  gain, 
That  hunt  the  negro  to  his  death  and  the  poor  man  to 

the  cell, 
And  kindle  the  fires  of  anarchy  where  plenty  and  peace 

should  dwell. 

We  thank  Thee,  gracious  Lord  of  all,  for  the  blessed 

things  that  be ; 
For  the  life  and  light  that  free  thought  brings  to  make 

the  people  free ; 
For  the  will  to  heed  a  neighbor's  need,   or  defend  his 

righteous  cause, 
And  the  grace  to  write  on  freedom's  chart  the  codes  of 

wiser  laws. 

And  thus,  O  Lord,  with  prayer  and  praise  we  end  the 

rolling  year, 
And    lift  our   waiting   hearts   to   Thee   and   feel   Thy 

presence  near, 
In  every  loving  soul  that  stands  with  outstretched  arms 

to  Thee, 
In   the   negro's    hut,   in   the  rich  man's  home,  in  the 

islands  of  the  sea. 


DECORATION    DAY   ON  THE   PLACE.  \J 

Decoration   Day  on  the  Place. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB   RILEY. 

(By  permission  of  The  Bowen-Merritl  Co.) 

IT'S  lonesome  —  sort  o'  lonesome, — it's  a  Sund'y-day, 
to  me, 
It  'pears-like  —  more'n  any  day  I  nearly  ever  see  ! 
Yit,  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  above,  a-flutterin'  in  the 

air, 
On  ev'ry  soldier's  grave  I'd  love  to  lay  a  lily  thare. 

They  say,  though,  Decoration  Day  is  ginerly  observed 
'Most  ev  rywliares  —  espeshally  by  soldier   boys  that's 

served  — 
But  me  and  mother's  never  went — we  seldom  git  away, — 
In  pint  o'  fact,  we're  alius  home  on  Decoration  Day. 

They  say  the  old  boys  marches  through  the  streets  in 

colum's  —  grand, 
A-f ollerin'  the  old  war-tunes  theyr  playin'  on  the  band  — 
And  citizuns  all  jinin'  in —  and  little  children,  too  — 
All  marchin'  under  shelter  of  the  old  Red,  White,  and 

Blue. 

With  roses  !  roses !  roses !  —  everybody  in  the  town  ! 
And  crowds  o'   little   girls  in  white,   jest   fairly  loaded 

down  !  — 
Oh  !    don't  The  Boys  know  it,  from  theyr  camp  acrost 

the  hill?  — 
Don't  they  see  theyr  comards  comin'  and  the  old  flag 

wavin'  still  ? 


1 8  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Oh!    can't  they   hear  the  bugul  and  the  rattle  of  the 

drum  ?  — 
Ain't  they  no  way  under  heavens  they  can  rickollect  us 

some  ? 
Ain't  they  no  way  we  can  c6ax  'em,  through  the  roses, 

jest  to  say 
They  know  that  ev'ry  day  on  earth's  theyr  decoration  day  ? 

We've  tried  that  —  me  and  mother  —  whare  Elias  takes 

his  rest, 
In  the  orchurd — in  his  uniform,  and  hands  acrost  his 

brest, 
And  the  flag  he  died  fer,  smilin'  and  a-ripplin'  in  the 

breeze 
Above  his  grave  —  and  over  that, —  the  robin  in  the  trees  ! 

And  yit  it's  lonesome — lonesome  !  —  it's  a  Sunday-day, 

to  me, 
It  'pears-like  —  more'n  any  day  I  nearly  ever  see  !  — 
Still,  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  above,  a-flutterin'  in  the 

air, 
On  ev'ry  soldier's  grave  I'd  love  to  lay  a  lily  thare. 


The  Man  with  the   Musket. 

HOWARD   S.    TAYLOR. 

{By  permission,  from  The  Century  Magazine.} 

THEY  are  building  as  Babel  was  built,  to  the  sky, 
With  clash  and  confusion  of  speech  ; 
They  are  piling  up  monuments  massive  and  high 
To  lift  a  few  names  out  of  reach. 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE    MUSKET.  19 

And  the  passionate  green-laureled  god  of  the  great, 

In  a  whimsical  riddle  of  stone, 
Has  chosen  a  few  from  the  Field  and  the  State 

To  sit  on  the  steps  of  his  throne. 

But  I  —  I  will  pass  from  this  rage  of  renown, 

This  ant-hill  commotion,  and  strife, 
Pass  by  where  the  marbles  and  bronzes  look  down 

With  their  fast  frozen  gestures  of  life, 
On,  out  to  the  nameless  who  lie  'neath  the  gloom 

Of  the  pitying  cypress  and  pine ; 
Your  man  is  the  man  of  the  sword  and  the  plume, 

But  the  man  of  the  musket  is  mine. 

I  knew  him !     By  all  that  is  noble,  I  knew 

This  commonplace  hero  I  name  ! 
I've  camped  with  him,  marched  with  him,  fought  with 
him  too, 

In  the  swirl  of  the  fierce  battle-flame ! 
Laughed  with  him,  cried  with  him,  taken  a  part 

Of  his  canteen  and  blanket,  and  known 
That  the  throb  of  this  chivalrous  prairie  boy's  heart 

Was  an  answering  stroke  of  my  own  ! 

I  knew  him,  I  tell  you !     And,  also,  I  knew, 

When  he  fell  on  the  battle-swept  ridge, 
That  the  poor  battered  body  that  lay  there  in  blue 

Was  only  a  plank  in  the  bridge 
Over  which  some  should  pass  to  a  fame 

That  shall  shine  while  the  high  stars  shall  shine  ! 
Your  hero  is  known  by  an  echoing  name, 

But  the  man  of  the  musket  is  mine. 


20  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

I  knew  him  !    All  through  him  the  good  and  the  bad 

Ran  together  and  equally  free ; 
But  I  judge  as  I  trust  Christ  has  judged  the  poor  lad, 

For  death  made  him  noble  to  me ! 
In  the  cyclone  of  war,  in  the  battle's  eclipse, 

Life  shook  out  its  lingering  sands, 
And  he  died  with  the  names  that  he  loved  on  his  lips, 

His  musket  still  grasped  in  his  hands ! 
Up  close  to  the  flag  my  soldier  went  down, 

In  the  salient  front  of  the  line  ! 
You  may  take  for  your  heroes  the  men  of  renown, 

But  the  man  of  the  musket  is  mine ! 

****** 

There  is  peace  in  the  May-ladened  grace  of  the  hours 

That  come  when  the  day's  work  is  done ; 
And  peace  with  the  nameless  who,  under  the  flowers, 

Lie  asleep  in  the  slant  of  the  sun. 
Beat  the  taps  !     Put  out  lights  !  and  silence  all  sound  ! 

There  is  rifle-pit  strength  in  the  grave  ! 
They  sleep  well  who  sleep,  be  they  crowned  or  uncrowned, 

And  Death  will  be  kind  to  the  brave. 

Old  comrades  of  mine,  by  the  fast  waning  years 

That  move  to  mortality's  goal, 
By  my  heart  full  of  love  and  my  eyes  full  of  tears, 

I  hold  you  all  fast  in  my  soul ! 
And  I  march  with  the  May,  and  its  blossomy  charms 

I  tenderly  lay  on  this  sod, 
And  pray  they  may  rest  there,  old  comrades  in  arms, 

Like  a  kiss  of  forgiveness  from  God  ! 


THE   SOLDIER   OF   PEACE.  21 

The  Soldier  of  Peace. 

HOWARD   S.    TAYLOR. 

WE  have  laureled  the  heroes  whose  glory 
Was  won  where  the  battle-waves  rolled ; 
We  have  chiseled  and  chanted  the  story 

For  mankind  to  hear  and  behold  ; 
— To  hear  and  behold  and  to  wonder, 

While  cannon  and  trumpet  and  drum 
Send  a  militant  message  of  thunder 
To  waken  the  ages  to  come  ! 

Ah,  the  ages  to  come  !  —  will  they  treasure, 

As  we  do,  our  trophies  and  tombs  ? 
Will  they  level  all  life  to  the  measure 

Of  the  sword  that  destroys  and  consumes  ? 
Will  they  still  plow  the  earth  with  their  cannon, 

And  seed  it  with  bullet  and  blade, 
And  reap  under  war's  crimson  pennon 

The  harvest  of  grief  they  have  made  ? 

We  have  come  through  the  deep  tribulation ; 

We  are  heavy  with  fear  and  regret ; 
And  we  long  for  the  dear  consummation 

When  men  shall  forgive  and  forget. 
When  neighbor  shall  strike  hands  with  neighbor, 

And  wars  and  contentions  shall  cease, 
And  the  world  find  its  hero  at  labor 

— The  good,  gallant  soldier  of  peace. 


22  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

A  soldier  !  — on  whose  stainless  glory- 
No  envy  or  malice  encroach  ; 

A  Bayard  !  —  with  no  written  story, 
Yet,  still,  above  fear  or  reproach ! 

No  red-handed  warfare  he  wages, 

But  the  heroes  of  Rome  and  of  Greece 

Grow  dwarfed  in  the  noon  of  the  ages 
Below  the  good  soldier  of  peace. 

He  has  conquered  the  hostile,  high  mountains, 

He  has  mastered  the  obdurate  flood, 
He  has  dappled  the  desert  with  fountains, 

And  ordered  the  tangled  wildwood  — 
Till  nature,  subdued  by  his  spirit, 

Doth  bounty  on  bounty  increase, 
And  they  who  that  bounty  inherit, 

All  bless  the  brave  soldier  of  peace ! 

O  stainless  knight-errant  of  labor, 

Our  eyes  have  been  holden  ; — but  now 
We  know  that  for  musket  and  saber 

Thy  arms  were  the  axe  and  the  plow ! 
We  will  cross  them  in  heraldic  fashion 

—  A  blazonry  never  to  cease, 
And  wrap  in  our  hearts'  fondest  passion 

The  good,  gallant  soldier  of  peace ! 


OLD   GLORY   AT   PEKING.  23 

Old  Glory  at  Peking. 

MRS.    E.    S.    L.    THOMPSON. 

"  When  the  travail  of  the  ages 
Wrings  earth's  systems  to  and  fro.1' 

I  SAW  our  Banner  as  it  waved  ! 
I  saw  the  smile  of  children  saved ! 
Heard  earth  telling  all  the  story 
Of  thy  mighty  fame,  Old  Glory ! 
And  my  heart  bowed  down  as  all  hearts  to  thee, 
Blossom  and  fruit  of  Liberty's  tree ! 

I  saw  the  Future's  sky  agleam 

Where  Stripe  and  Star  together  stream  ; 

All-sympathied  the  nations  stood, 

One  in  the  soul  of  brotherhood ! 

But  the  crown  and  purple  were  all  for  thee, 

Blossom  and  fruit  of  Liberty's  tree ! 

I  followed  where  the  Allies  led, 

Brave  men  of  heart  and  cool  of  head ; 

Heard  earth  telling  all  the  story 

Of  thy  mighty  fame,  Old  Glory ! 

And  the  crown  and  purple  were  all  for  thee, 

Eternal  prophet  of  destiny  ! 

Old  Glory,  I  saw  thy  leap  and  light  — 
Splendid  flash  for  thy  country's  right ! 
Heaven's  own  voice  proclaimed  thy  name, 
As  the  sky  leaned  down  to  touch  thy  flame ! 
Ah,  the  crown  and  purple  were  all  for  thee, 
Blossom  and  fruit  of  Liberty's  tree ! 


24  POETS  AND   TOETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

At  Lincoln's  Grave. 

MAURICE   THOMPSON. 

(/>/  permission  of  Stone  and  Kimball.) 


M 


AY  one  who  fought  in  honor  for  the  South 
Uncovered  stand  and  sing  by  Lincoln's 


grave  ? 


Why,  if  I  shrank  not  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Nor  swerved  one  inch  for  any  battle-wave, 
Should  I  now  tremble  in  this  quiet  close, 
Hearing  the  prairie  wind  go  lightly  by 
From  billowy  plains  of  grass  and  miles  of  corn, 

While  out  of  deep  repose, 
The  great  sweet  spirit  lifts  itself  on  high 
And  broods  above  our  land  this  summer  morn  ? 

I,  mindful  of  a  dark  and  bitter  past, 
And  of  its  clashing  hopes  and  raging  hates, 
Still,  standing  here,  invoke  a  love  so  vast 
It  cancels  all  and  all  obliterates, 
Save  love  itself,  which  cannot  harbor  wrong ; 
Oh,  for  a  voice  of  boundless  melody, 
A  voice  to  fill  heaven's  hollow  to  the  brim 
With  one  brave  burst  of  song, 
Stronger  than  tempest,  nobler  than  the  sea, 
That  I  might  lend  it  to  a  song  of  him  ! 

Meseems  I  feel  his  presence.     Is  he  dead  ? 
Death  is  a  word.    He  lives  and  grander  grows. 
At  Gettysburg  he  bows  his  bleeding  head ; 
He  spreads  his  arms  where  Chickamauga  flows, 


MAI/RICK    THOMPSON. 


AT   LINCOLN'S   GRAVE.  25 

As  if  to  clasp  old  soldiers  to  his  breast, 

Of  South  or  North,  no  matter  which  they  be, 

Not  thinking  of  what  uniform  they  wore,  — 

His  heart  the  palimpsest 
Record  on  record  of  humanity, 
Where  love  is  first  and  last  forevermore. 

His  humor,  born  of  virile  opulence, 

Stung  like  a  pungent  sap  or  wild-fruit  zest, 

And  satisfied  a  universal  sense 

Of  manliness,  the  strongest  and  the  best ; 

A  soft  Kentucky  strain  was  in  his  voice, 

And  the  Ohio's  deeper  boom  was  there, 

With  some  wild  accents  of  old  Wabash  days, 

And  winds  of  Illinois  ; 
And  when  he  spoke  he  took  us  unaware, 
With  his  high  courage  and  unselfish  ways. 

He  was  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  the  West, 

The  thrall,  the  master,  all  of  us  in  one  ; 

There  was  no  section  that  he  held  the  best ; 

His  love  shone  as  impartial  as  the  sun ; 

And  so  revenge  appealed  to  him  in  vain, 

He  smiled  at  it  as  at  a  thing  forlorn, 

And  gently  put  it  from  him,  rose  and  stood 

A  moment's  space  in  pain, 
Remembering  the  prairies  and  the  corn 
And  the  glad  voices  of  the  field  and  wood. 


&1 


Annealed  in  white-hot  fire,  he  bore  the  test 
Of  every  strain  temptation  could  invent, — 
Hard  points  of  slander,  shivered  on  his  breast, 


26  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Fell  at  his  feet,  and  envy's  blades  were  bent 
In  his  bare  hands  and  lightly  cast  aside ; 
He  would  not  wear  a  shield  ;  no  selfish  aim 
Guided  one  thought  of  all  those  trying  hours ; 

No  breath  of  pride, 
No  pompous  striving  for  the  pose  of  fame 
Weakened  one  stroke  of  all  his  noble  powers. 


The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg. 

WILL   H.    THOMPSON. 

(By  permission,  from  the  Century  Magazine.') 

A  CLOUD  possessed  the  hollow  field, 
The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield. 
Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then,  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 

A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs,  — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons. 


THE   HIGH   TIDE   AT  GETTYSBURG.  27 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 
Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew ! 
A  Kamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  British  squares  at  Waterloo  ! 


A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led  ; 
A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled  ; 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 
And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 

"  Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me !  " 
Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee  : 
"  We  two  together,  come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day  !  " 
(The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

Brave  Tennessee  !    In  reckless  way, 
Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say  : 
"  Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag! " 
What  time  she  set  her  battle-flag 
Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 
Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate  ? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 


28  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet ! 
In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet ! 


Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost, 
Receding  through  the  battle  cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 
The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost ! 

The  brave  went  down !    Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace. 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sun-burst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face  ! 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand ! 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland ! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium  ! 
They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom  ! 


THE   BOND   OF   BLOOD.  29 

God  lives  !     He  forged  the  iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns !    He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still ! 

Fold  up  the  banners  !    Smelt  the  guns  ! 
Love  rules.     Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons  ! 


The  Bond  of  Blood. 

WILL   H.    THOMPSON. 

(By  permission,  from  the  Century  Magazine?) 

THE  words  of  a  rebel,  old  and  battered, 
Who  will  care  to  remember  them  ? 
Under  the  Lost  Flag,  battle-tattered, 
I  was  a  comrade  of  Allan  Memm. 

Who  was  Allan,  that  I  should  name  him 

Bravest  of  all  the  brave  who  bled  ? 
Why  should  a  soldier's  song  proclaim  him 

First  of  a  hundred  thousand  dead  ? 

An  angel  of  battle,  with  fair  hair  curling 

By  brown  cheeks  shrunken  and  wan  with  want ; 

A  living  missile  that  Lee  was  hurling 
Straight  on  the  iron  front  of  Grant ; 


30  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

A  war-child  born  of  the  Old  South's  passion, 
Trained  in  the  camp  of  the  cavaliers  ; 

A  spirit  wrought  in  the  antique  fashion 
Of  Glory's  martial  morning  years. 

His  young  wife's  laugh  and  his  baby's  prattle 
He  bore  through  the  roar  of  the  hungry  guns  — 

Through  the  yell  of  shell  in  the  rage  of  battle, 
And  the  moan  that  under  the  thunder  runs. 

His  was  the  voice  that  cried  the  warning 
At  the  shattered  gate  of  the  slaughter  pen, 

When  Hancock  rushed,  in  the  gray  of  morning, 
Over  our  doomed  and  desperate  men. 

His  was  the  hand  that  held  the  standard  — 
A  flaring  torch  on  a  crumbling  shore  — 

'Mid  the  billows  of  blue  by  the  storm  blown  landward, 
And  his  call  we  heard  through  the  ocean  roar : 

Ere  the  flag  should  shrink  to  a  lost  hope's  token, 
Ere  the  glow  of  its  glory  be  low  and  dim, 

Ere  its  stars  should  fade,  and  its  bars  be  broken, 
Calling  his  comrades  to  come  to  him. 


And  these,  at  the  order  of  Hill  or  Gordon,  — 
God  keep  their  ashes  !  I  knew  them  well,  — 

Would  have  smashed  the  ranks  of  the  devil's  cordon, 
Or  charged  through  the  flames  that  roar  in  hell. 


THE   BOND   OF   BLOOD.  3 1 

But  none  could  stand  where  the  storm  was  beating, 
Never  a  comrade  could  reach  his  side ; 

In  the  spume  of  flame  where  the  tides  were  meeting, 
He,  of  a  thousand,  stood  and  died. 


And  the  foe,  in  the  old,  heroic  manner, 
Tenderly  laid  his  form  to  rest, 

The  splintered  staff  and  the  riddled  banner 
Hiding  the  horror  upon  his  breast. 


Gone  is  the  cot  in  the  Georgia  wildwood, 
Gone  is  the  blossom-strangled  porch  ; 

The  roof  that  sheltered  a  soldier's  childhood 
Vainly  pleaded  with  Sherman's  torch. 

Gone  are  the  years,  and  far  and  feeble 

Ever  the  old,  wild  echoes  die; 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  a  great,  glad  people 

Hailing  the  one  flag  under  the  sky ! 

And  the  monstrous  heart  of  the  storm  receding, 

Fainter  and  farther  throbs  and  jars ; 
And  the  new  storm  bursts,  and  the  brave  are  bleeding 

Under  the  cruel  alien  stars. 

And  Allan's  wife  in  the  grave  is  lying 
Under  the  old  scorched  vine  and  pine, 

While  Allan's  child  in  the  isles  is  dying 
Far  on  the  foremost  fighting  line. 


32  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

Cheer  for  the  flag  with  the  old  stars  spangled, 
Shake  out  its  folds  to  the  wind's  caress, 

Over  the  hearts  by  war-hounds  mangled 
Down  in  the  tangled  Wilderness ! 

To  wave  o'er  the  grave  of  the  brave  forever; 

For  the  Gray  has  sealed,  in  the  bond  of  blood, 
His  faith  to  the  Blue,  and  the  brave  shall  never 

Question  the  brave  in  the  sight  of  God. 


The  Old  Sergeant. 

FORCEYTHE  WILLSON. 

"/~*OME  a  little  nearer,  Doctor,  —  thank  you,  —  let 

^-/     me  take  the  cup  : 
Draw  your   chair  up,  —  draw  it  closer, — just  another 

little  sup  ! 
Maybe  you  may  think  I'm  better ;  but  I'm  pretty  well 

used  up,  — 
Doctor,  you've   done   all   you  could   do,  but   I'm   just 

a-going  up. 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much 

use  to  try." 
"  Never  say  that,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  he  smothered 

down  a  sigh  ; 
"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,   for  a  soldier  to   say 

die !  " 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  Doctor,  when 

you  come  to  die. 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT.  33 

"  Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter  ?  "    "  You  were  very 

faint,  they  say ; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."     "  Doctor,  have  I 

been  away?  " 
"Not   that   anybody   knows   of."     "Doctor,  —  Doctor, 

please  to  stay ; 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't  have 

long  to  stay. 

"  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I'm  ready  now 

to  go; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted  ?  —  but  it  could  not  ha' 

been  so,  — 
For  as  sure  as  I'm  a  Sergeant,  and  was  wounded  at 

Shiloh, 
I've  this  very  night  been  back  there,  on  the  old  field  of 

Shiloh. 

"  This  is  all  that  I  remember:  The  last  time  the  Lighter 

came, 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and   the   noises 

much  the  same, 
He  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  something 

called  my  name  : 
'Orderly  Sergeant  —  Robert  Burton!'  — just  that 

way  it  called  my  name. 

"  And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  distinctly  and 

so  slow, 
Knew  it  couldn't  be  the  Lighter,  —  he  could  not  have 

spoken  so,  — 

D 


34  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir ! '  but  I  couldn't  make 

it  go; 
For  I  couldn't  move  a  muscle,  and   I   couldn't  make 

it  go. 

"Then  I  thought,  it's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  humbug 
and  a  bore ; 

Just  another  foolish  grape-vine — and  it  won't  come  any- 
more ; 

But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same  way  as 
before  : 

'Orderly  Sergeant — Robert  Burton  ! ' — even  plainer 
than  before. 

"That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden  burst  of 
light, 

And  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  we  stood  that  Sun- 
day night, 

Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  opposite, 

When  the  river  was  perdition,  and  all  hell  was  oppo- 
site. 

"  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  in  all  its 

power, 
And  I  heard  a  bugle  sounding,  as  from  some  celestial 

tower, 
And    the    same    mysterious   voice    said,    '  It    is    the 

eleventh  hour ! 
Orderly    Sergeant  —  Robert    Burton  —  It   is  the 

eleventh  hour ! ' 


THE   OLD  SERGEANT.  35 

"  Doctor  Austin,  —  what  day  is  this  ?  "  "  It  is  Wednes- 
day night,  you  know." 

"Yes,  to-morrow  will  be  New  Year's,  and  a  right  good 
time  below. 

What  time  is  it,  Doctor  Austin  ?  "  "  Nearly  twelve." 
"  Then,  don't  you  go  ! 

Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened  —  all  this  —  not  an 
hour  ago  ? 

"  There  was  where  the  gunboats  opened  on  the  dark 

rebellious  host, 
And  where  Webster  semi-circled  his  last  guns  upon  the 

coast ; 
There  were  still  the  two  log  houses,  just  the  same,  or 

else  their  ghost,— 
And  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  me  over  — 

or  its  ghost. 

"  And  the  old  field  lay  before  me  all  deserted  far  and 

wide ; 
There  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss,  —  there  McCler- 

nand  met  the  tide  ; 
There  was    where   stern    Sherman   rallied,  and   where 

Hurlbut's  heroes  died,  — 
Lower  down  where  Wallace  charged   them,  and  kept 

charging  till  he  died. 

"  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he  was 

of  the  canny  kin, 
There  was   where   old    Nelson    thundered,  and   where 

Rousseau  waded  in ; 


36         POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we  all  began 

to  win  — 
There  was  where  the  grapeshot  took  me,  just   as  we 

began  to  win. 

"  Now  a  shroud  of  snow  and    silence  over   everything 

was  spread; 
And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle  and  the  old  hat  on  my 

head, 
I  should  not  have  even  doubted,  to  this  moment,  I  was 

dead,  — 
For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow  upon  the 

dead. 

"  Death  and  silence !  —  Death  and  silence  !  all  around 

me  as  I  sped, 
And  behold !    a  mighty  Tower,  as  if  builded   to   the 

dead, 
To  the   Heaven  of  the  heavens  lifted  up  its  mighty 

head, 
Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  Heaven  all  seemed  waving 

from  its  head. 

"  Round  and  mighty-based  it  towered  up  into  the  in- 
finite, 

And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a  shaft 
so  bright ; 

For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine ;  and  a  winding  stair  of 
light 

Wound  around  it  and  around  it,  till  it  wound  clear  out 
of  sight. 


THE  OLD   SERGEANT.  37 

"And  behold,  as  I  approached  it  —  with   a   rapt   and 

dazzled  stare,  — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascending  the 

great  Stair,  — 
Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of  —  'Halt!  and 

who  goes  there  ? ' 
'I'm  a  friend,'  I  said,  'if  you  are.'      'Then   advance, 

sir,  to  the  Stair  ! ' 

"I  advanced.  —  That  sentry,  Doctor,  was   Elijah  Bal- 

lantyne,  — 
First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had  formed  the 

line.  — 
'  Welcome,  my  old   Sergeant,  welcome !     Welcome  by 

that  countersign ! ' 
And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  this  old  cloak 

of  mine. 

"  And  as  he  grasped  my  hand,  I  shuddered,  thinking 
only  of  the  grave  ; 

But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward  with  a  bright  and 
bloodless  glaive : 

'That's  the  way,  sir,  to  Headquarters.'  'What  head- 
quarters ? '     'Of  the  Brave.' 

'  But  the  great  Tower  ? '  '  That,'  he  answered,  '  is  the 
way,  sir,  of  the  Brave.' 

"  Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his  uniform  of 

light, 
And  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so  new  and 

bright. 


38  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

'  Ah ! '  said  he,  '  you  have  forgotten  the  New  Uniform 

to-night,  — 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve  o'clock 

to-night.' 

"And   the  next  thing   I  remember,  you   were   sitting 

there,  and  I  — 
Doctor,  —  did    you    hear    a   footstep?      Hark!  —  God 

bless  you  all !     Good-bye  ! 
Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knapsack, 

when  I  die, 
To  my  son  —  my  son  that's  coming,  —  he  won't  get  here 

till  I  die. 

"  Tell  him  his  old  father  blessed  him  as  he  never  did 

before,  — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket "  —  Hark !  a  knock  is  at 

the  door ! — 
"Till    the    Union  —  "      See!    it    opens  !  — "  Father  ! 

Father  !    speak   once  more  !  " 
"Bless  you!"  gasped  the  old,  gray  Sergeant,  and  he 

lay  and  said  no  more. 


IN  STATE.  39 


In  State. 

{Written  during  the  progress  of  the  War  for  the  Union.) 

FORCEYTHE   WILLSON. 

"  T  SEE  the  champion  sword-stroke's  flash  ; 
i-   I  see  them  fall  and  hear  them  clash  ; 
I  hear  the  murderous  engines  crash  ; 
I  see  a  brother  stoop  to  loose  a  foeman-brother's  bloody 
sash. 

"  I  see  the  torn  and  mangled  corse, 
The  dead  and  dying  heaped  in  scores, 
The  headless  rider  by  his  horse, 
The  wounded  captive  bayoneted  through  and  through 
without  remorse. 

"  I  hear  the  dying  sufferer  cry, 

With  crushed  face  turned  unto  the  sky, 

I  see  him  crawl  in  agony 
To  the  foul  pool,  and  bow  his  head  into  its  bloody  slime, 
and  die. 

"  I  see  the  assassin  crouch  and  fire, 

I  see  his  victim  fall  —  expire  ; 

I  see  the  murderer  creeping  nigher 
To  strip  the  dead.     He  turns  the  head.     The  face !    The 
son  beholds  his  sire  ! 


40  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

"  I  hear  the  curses  and  the  thanks ; 
I  see  the  mad  charge  on  the  flanks, 
The  rents,  the  gaps,  the  broken  ranks,  — 

The  vanquished    squadron   diving  headlong  down  the 
river's  bridgeless  banks. 


"  I  see  the  death-grip  on  the  plain, 

The  grappling  monsters  on  the  main, 

The  tens  of  thousands  that  are  slain, 
And  all  the  speechless  suffering  and  agony  of  heart  and 
brain. 


"  I  see  the  dark  and  bloody  spots, 

The  crowded  rooms,  and  crowded  cots, 

The  bleaching  bones,  the  battle  blots, 
And  writ  on  many  a  nameless  grave,  a  legend  of  forget- 
me-nots. 

"  I  see  the  full-gorged  prison  den, 

The  dead  line,  and  the  pent-up  pen, 

The  thousands  quartered  in  the  fen, 
The  living  deaths  of  skin  and  bone  that  were  the  goodly 
shapes  of  men. 

"  And  still  the  bloody  dew  must  fall ! 

And  His  Great  Darkness  with  the  pall 

Of  His  dread  judgment  cover  all, 
Till  the  dead  nation  rise  transformed  by  truth  to  triumph 
over  all." 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


An   Idle   Hour. 

GRANVILLE   M.    BALLARD. 

I^WAS  in  the  month  when  roses  bloom, 
-I-     And  lark  first  learns  to  spread  the  wing  ; 
When  God  says  to  his  song-birds,  "  Sing," 
And  to  his  flowers,  "  Give  forth  perfume." 

How  long  ago  ?     I  only  know 
I  whistled,  whistled  my  first  tune, 
One  idle  hour  in  leafy  June, 

So  long  ago  —  so  long  ago. 

I  had  been  chasiqg  butterflies 
Down  in  a  meadow  near  the  run, 
Which  still  goes  singing  to  the  sun, 

And  still  reflects  cerulean  skies. 

Till  wearied,  if  a  boy  may  be, 

I  sought  the  cool  embrace  of  shade, 
Where  singing  brook  a  circuit  made 

To  bathe  the  roots  of  aspen  tree. 

No  marring  foot  but  mine  had  pressed 
The  virgin  grass  that  summer  day ; 
No  village  boys  were  there  at  play  — 

Secure  the  robin  warmed  her  nest. 

43 


44  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  there  the  linnet  piped  her  lay 
To  linnet  in  the  sighing  birch, 
And  catbird  from  his  lofty  perch 

Sang  anthems  to  the  listening  jay. 

The  quaking  asp,  the  singing  bird, 
The  wagon  rumbling  o'er  the  bridge, 
The  crowing  cock  across  the  ridge, 

The  rippling  brook,  I,  whistling,  heard. 

And  this  vague  query  added  joy, 
That  idle  hour  in  leafy  June, 
Long  years  ago  in  life's  new  moon,  — 

"  Could  Adam  whistle  when  a  boy  ?  " 


My    Little    Neighbor. 

MARGARET    HOLMES    BATES. 

MY  little  neighbor  taps  the  window  pane, 
With  finger-fallings  soft  as  summer  rain, 
I  peer  across  the  space  betwixt  us  two, 
And  gayly  greet  her  starry  eyes  of  blue 
Beneath  their  thatch  of  hair  like  harvest  grain. 

Each  day  she  shows  to  me  some  wondrous  gain, 
Of  words  no  learned  linguist  could  explain,  — 
Words  that  the  angels  lean  to  whisper  to 
My  little  neighbor. 


A   LITTLE   GIRL'S   VISIT.  45 

Her  busy  hands  no  labor  will  disdain, 
Her  restless  feet  their  pattering  maintain, 
Her  golden  head  its  projects  must  pursue, 
Till  weariness  pervades  her  through  and  through ; 
The  curtain  falls  ;  may  sweet  dreams  entertain 
My  little  neighbor ! 


A  Little  Girl's  Visit. 

(In  child's  dialed.) 

MINNIE   THOMAS   BOYCE. 

WE'VE  been  on  a  visit  to  'Noplis, 
My  mamma  an'  Freddie  an'  me, 
A-seein'  my  gramma  an'  grampa, 

An'  my  Aunt  Hattie  Dodson  an'  Lee. 

Lee's  my  Aunt  Hattie's  boy; — not  her  own  boy;  — 
He's  thest  one  she  raisded ;  an'  when 

He's  a  wee  little  bit  of  a  baby, 
I  guess  'at  she  tookted  him  then. 

I  didn't  like  a-visitin',  very, 

'Cause  you  has  to  say,  "  yes,  mum  "  and  "  please," 
An'  '"scuse  me,"  an'  "  no,  sir,"  an'  "thank  you," 

An'  you  can't  hardly  cough,  sir,  or  sneeze. 

An'  you  can't  have  two  dishes  of  nothin'  ; 

Not  even  ice  cream  or  plum  pie. 
Freddie  said  he  could  put  all  the  vittles 

He  et,  while  he's  there,  in  his  eye. 


46  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  hired  girl,  she's  nice,  though,  I  tell  you, 
An'  knows  a  most  stories,  an'  brings 

Us  lolly-pops,  too,  when  we's  naughty, 
An*  telled  about  ghostses  an'  things. 


Freddy,  he's  awful  skeered  at  the  story 
'Bout  Red  Ridin'  Hood  an'  the  bear, 

An'  when  she  said,  "  Eat  you  up  !  "  to  him, 
You  could  thist  hear  him  bawl  ever'where. 

I  jumped  when  she  said  'bout  the  white  things 
'At  'ist  grabs  you  up  off  the  street, 

An'  puts  you  down  in  a  big  cellar, 
An'  won't  give  you  one  bite  to  eat. 

An'  Lee  he  thest  acted  a-meanest, 
An'  said,  "  O  you  big  Cordy-Caftl 

You  better  go  in  to  your  mamma," 
An'  nen  he  'ist  hollered  an'  laft. 

An'  I  made  a  snoot  like  this  at  him, 
An'  said,  "You  old  dog-on-it,  you  !  " 

My  mamma  don't  care  if  I  say  that, 
'Cause  I  guess  that  she  said  it  onct,  too. 

Lee  knows  awful  bad  words,  I  tell  you, 
I  guess  that  they're  worser  than  swear ; 

But  he  said  if  I  tattled  to  gramma, 
He'd  pull  out  ever'  bit  o'  my  hair. 


PATTICAKE.  47 

Aunt  Hattie,  she'd  give  him  a  whippin', 
If  she  knowed  them  bad  words  he  said, 

An'  undress  him,  an'  put  on  his  nightgownd, 
An'  make  him  go  right  straight  to  bed. 


It's  nice  to  be  home  'gen  wiv  papa, 
An'  sleep  in  a  room  wiv  a  light, 

An'  'ist  wear  my  ole  gimpum  aperns, 
An'  not  say  my  prayer  ever'  night. 

An'  when  I  get  growed  up  like  mamma, 
An'  have  little  girls  'ist  like  me, 

They  can  do  ever'thing  that  they  want  to, 
But  I  won't  have  no  mean  boys  like  Lee. 


Patticake. 

CHARLES   DENNIS. 


"  T)ATTICAKE,  patticake,  hard  as  you  can 

JL      The  mother  sang  to  her  "  little  man," 
Who,  with  dimpled  fingers  and  arms  of  snow, 
Laughed  and  crowed  as  he  "  made  the  dough.' 

Ten  little  fingers  of  rosy  hue, 

Meet  as  they  "  pick  it  and  stick  it  too." 

Ten  little  fingers  "  put  it  to  bake," 
Into  an  oven  of  fairy  make. 


48  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Ten  little  fingers  have  made  the  bread, 
And  then,  all  tired,  are  cuddled  to  bed. 


Ten  old  fingers,  all  wrinkled  and  bent, 
'Neath  a  cold  white  face  a  shroud  indent, 
Crossing  a  breast  that  no  more  shall  ache  - 
They  have  finished  the  lesson  of  patticake. 


Baby's  Boat  Song. 

MRS.    MAY   W.    DONNAN. 

STEER  you  straight  for  sleepy-land, 
Drowsy  sailor,  O  ; 
See  across  the  shining  sand, 
Happy  children  go. 
Shadows  dark  are  softly  creeping, 
Starry  lights  are  outward  peeping, 
Silently,  my  sailor,  row, 
Soon  we  shall  be  there. 

Sleep,  my  darling  ;  sleep,  my  sweeting ; 
Gently  flows  the  water  near ; 
Joy  is  coming,  trouble  fleeting, 
Sleep,  my  darling ;  sleep,  my  dear. 

Nodding  are  the  dreamy  flowers, 
Slowly  to  and  fro  ; 
Nodding  are  these  heads  of  ours, 
Eyelids  drooping  low ; 


LITTLE   BABY   EMILY.  49 

In  the  trees  the  birds  are  sleeping, 
Only  crickets  watch  are  keeping, 
Round  and  bright  the  moon  doth  glow, 
While  our  boat  slips  by. 

Softly,  slowly,  surely  gliding, 
From  all  care  and  worry  free ; 
Day  from  us  his  face  is  hiding, — 
Safe  in  slumberland  are  we. 


Little  Baby  Emily. 

MRS.    MAY   W.    DONNAN. 

ABIT  of  blue  was  taken  from  the  skies 
To  make  her  pretty  eyes  ; 
From  a  lily's  cup  enough  of  white 
To  mold  her  brow  aright. 

Her  lips  were  rose-leaves  once,  and  in  their  red 

Are  fragrant  kisses  bred  ; 

The  rounded  softness  of  her  dainty  chin 

A  dove's  breast  might  have  been. 

A  beam  of  light  that  from  the  sun  had  strayed 
Into  her  smile  was  made ; 
The  song  a  happy  robin  thought  to  frame 
Her  tuneful  voice  became. 

And  when  we  kneel  beside  her  to  confess 
How  much  her  life  doth  bless, 
The  upward  look  upon  her  face  so  fair 
Compels  a  sweeter  prayer. 


50  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Answered. 

ALFRED   ELLISON. 

ONLY  a  little  boy,  with  dreamy  eyes  of  blue, 
Where  the  soul  is  seen,  like  the  dancing  stars  in 
the  depth  they're  shining  through, 
And  hair  like  the  fringe  of  the  folds  of  the  clouds,  when 
they  hide  the  sun  from  you. 

Only  a  little  boy,  with  fretful  feet  that  trip 

In  the  truant  ways  of  childhood,  and  questions  on  his 

lip 
The  world  has  never  answered  with  all  its  scholarship. 

"  Papa,  what  makes  me  little  ?  What  makes  your  hair 
get  gray  ? 

When  is  to-morrow  coming  ?  And  when  was  yester- 
day ? 

Who  tells  the  birds  of  winter  when  to  go  away  ? " 

How  can  I  answer  ?     Only  I  take  him  by  the  hand, 
And,  full  of  faith  that  all  things  are  well  and  wisely 

planned, 
I  say,  "  You  are  young,  my  darling  ;    sometime  you  will 

understand." 

Only  a  little  boy !     But  to  him  all  things  are  known. 
For  to-day  the  good  All-father,  bending  from  His  throne, 
Heard  his  childish  questionings,  and  I  am  left  alone. 


MY   LADY  JUST  OVER   THE   WAY.  5 1 

My   Lady  just  over  the  Way. 

MARY    HOCKETT    FLANNER. 

MY  lady  just  over  the  way  tells  me,  sweet, 
That  she  has  three  nice,  perfect  boys, 
Their  hair  always  kempt,  and  their  clothes  always  neat, 
And  never  from  them  does  she  hear  — 

(Listen,  dear !) 
And  never  from  them  does  she  hear  — 
(Tom,  come  near!) 
The  littlest,  tiniest  noise. 

But  I  would  not  change  you  for  them,  Bitter  Sweet, 
Nor  you,  Tricksey  Tommy,  nor  you,  Roguish  Pete, 
Tho',  I  will  confess,  with  your  noise  and  your  fun, 
I  sometimes  would  gladly  trade  off  every  one  — 
That  is  'till  I'm  rested,  and  then  —  oh,  why,  then 
Poor  mamma  would  just  want  to  trade  back  again. 

My  lady  just  over  the  way  tells  me,  dear, 

That  she  never  patches  nor  sews, 
Now  that,  I  am  sure,  sounds  —  well,  just  a  bit  queer, 
For  I  cannot  manage  that  way, 

Yes,  I  say 
That  I  cannot  manage  that  way. 
"  Don't  they  play  ?  " 
Of  course,  —  well,  that  is,  —  I  suppose; 

But  I  would  not  change  you  for  them,  Bitter  Sweet, 
Nor  you,  Tricksey  Tommy,  nor  you,  Roguish  Pete ; 


52  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

For  hers  are  but  marble  boys,  silent  and  cold, 
And  gladly  she'd  give  them,  with  all  of  her  gold, 
To  feel  the  close  clasp  of  a  baby's  warm  hand, 
Or  hear  the  word,  "mamma," — you  can't  understand- 
So  cuddle  down  close,  and  to-night,  as  we  pray, 
We'll  think  of  my  lady  just  over  the  way. 

The  Salve  of  the  Sandman. 

MARY    HOCKETT    FLANNER. 

OH,  the  sandman  carries  lint, 
Made  of  raveled  thistledown, 
All  powdered  o'er  with  pollen 

From  drowsy  poppies  blown  ; 
And  he  cures  all  baby  hurts 

With  his  sleepy,  soothing  hand, 
While  he  rubs  on  his  salve  fresh  from  dreamland. 

Come,  Whack-on-the-forehead, 
And  Bump-on-the-nose, 
And  Cut-on-the-finger, 
And  Tiny-stumped-toes, 
And  Poor-little-bee-sting, 
And  Stumble-and-fall, 
And  Slap-bang-and-bruisy, 
Come  one  and  come  all, 
And  use  of  the  salve  of  the  sandman ! 

Just  lay  your  little  head 

On  your  own  dear  mamma's  lap, 
And  close  the  tear-glued  lashes 

As  if  to  take  a  nap, 


BLUE   GENTIAN. 

Then  listen  for  the  sandman, 

Crooning  low  a  slumber  song, 
While  he  rubs  on  his  salve  from  dreamland. 

Come,  Whack-on-the-forehead, 
And  Bump-on-the-nose, 
And  Cut-on-the-finger, 
And  Tiny-stumped-toes, 
And  Poor-little-bee-sting, 
And  Stumble-and-fall, 
And  Slap-bang-and-bruisy, 
Come  one  and  come  all, 
And  use  of  the  salve  of  the  sandman  ! 


Blue    Gentian. 

ELIZABETH    E.    FOULKE. 

BEAUTIFUL  gentian,  don't  I  know 
Why  you  chose  this  place  to  grow  ? 

"  Here  you  can  lean  o'er  the  waters  cool, 
And  see  yourself  in  the  glassy  pool  ! 

"  Doesn't  your  beauty  make  you  vain, 
Mirrored  in  its  depths  so  plain  ? " 

"  Nay,  little  maid,"  it  answers  low, 
"  Never  a  gentian  looks  below  ;  — 

"  They  always  look  high  overhead  ;  — 
They  look  at  the  blue  of  the  sky,  instead !  ,: 


53 


54  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Sleep,  Little  Sweetheart. 

S.  W.  GILLILAN. 

SLEEP,  little  sweetheart,  sleep  ! 
Thy  father  is  watching  near  ; 
His  hand  on  thine  is  love's  own  sign 
That  thou  hast  no  need  of  fear. 
In  the  years  to  come,  when  thou  hast  thine  own, 
When  there's  never  a  heart-beat  free  from  fear, 
Thou'lt  then  recall  thy  youth,  and  all 
The  love  of  a  heart  no  longer  near  — 
Sleep,  little  sweetheart,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  little  sweetheart,  sleep  ! 
Thy  time  has  not  yet  come 
For  wakeful  nights  and  low-turned  lights 
That  will  some  day  crush  thy  home ; 
But  with  each  new  toy  and  its  newer  joy 
Thou  art  nearing  a  time  when  thy  humble  home  — 
But  no,  my  sweet,  it  is  far  more  meet 
Thou  shouldst  know  but  the  joy  till  the  sorrows  come 
Sleep,  little  sweetheart,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  little  sweetheart,  sleep  ! 
Thy  breathing,  soft  and  low, 
Is  as  sweet  to  me  as  aught  can  be ; 
And  't  is  joy  to  me  to  know 
That  sometime,  dear,  when  thou  liest  near 
Thine  own  first-born,  with  its  breathing  low, 
This  joy  of  mine  will  be  joy  of  thine, 
A  bliss  there  may  none  but  a  parent  know  — 
Sleep,  little  sweetheart,  sleep  ! 


LITTLE  BOY   BLUE.  55 

Little  Boy  Blue. 

MRS.    D.    M.    JORDAN. 

DEAR  little  boy  with  trousers  blue, 
And  eyes  of  the  same  bright,  sunny  hue, 
With  hair  the  color  of  flaxen  thread, 
Curling  in  ringlets  round  your  head, 
"  Blow  up  your  horn  ! " 

Blow  a  blast  on  your  tiny  horn, 
And  frighten  the  sheep  from  the  field  of  corn ; 
Scare  the  horses  out  of  the  hay, 
And  then  you  may  go  to  your  merry  play : 
"The  sheep  are  in  the  meadow !  " 

The  sheep  came  in  through  the  open  bars, 
And  browsed  all  night  by  the  light  of  stars ; 
They  trampled  the  hay  beneath  their  feet, 
And  fed  on  the  meadow  lilies  sweet. 
"  The  cows  are  in  the  corn  !  "  . 

Brindle  and  Spot  are  in  the  corn, 

They  leaped  the  fence  in  the  early  morn, 

And  the  silken  tassels  are  bending  low, 

'Neath  hoofs  of  the  onward-marching  foe  ; 

"  Where's  the  little  boy  that  looks  after  the  sheep  ?  " 

What  has  become  of  the  little  man, 
Who  blows  his  horn  like  an  infant  Pan  ? 
We  need  him  here  ;  oh  !  where  can  he  be  ? 
Some  one  run  to  the  meadow  and  see  !  — 
"  Under  the  hay-stack  fast  asleep." 


$6  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

There,  on  a  fragrant  bed  of  hay, 
The  blue-eyed  truant  in  slumber  lay, 
Dreaming  of  fields  that  need  no  bars, 
And  meadows  spangled  with  golden  stars. 
And  I  said,  "  Dream  on,  my  beautiful  boy  ! 
Dream  of  a  world  that  is  full  of  joy ; 
Gather  the  rose-buds  while  you  may, 
And  forget  the  sheep  and  the  fields  of  hay. 
All  too  soon  will  you  watch  and  wait, 
Guarding  the  fields  by  Mammon's  gate, 
And  the  world  will  trample  our  precious  corn, 
Tho'  never  so  bravely  you  blow  your  horn." 


A   Lullaby. 

ESTHER   NELSON   KARN. 

ROCK-A-BY,  hush-a-by,  baby,  my  dear, 
Nothing  can  harm  thee,  for  mother  is  near. 
The  journey  is  short  and  the  stars  twinkle  bright 
O'er  Byloland  pathway  —  my  baby,  good-night. 

Rock-a-by,  hush-a-by,  baby,  my  pet, 

Grasses  that  cover  thy  pathway  are  wet 

With  dewdrops  that  sparkle  like  jewels  so  bright. 

Rock-a-by,  hush-a-by,  baby,  good-night. 

Rock-a-by,  hush-a-by,  sweetheart  of  mine, 
Rest  from  their  prattle  those  red  lips  of  thine. 
Bridges  that  lead  into  Byloland  white, 
Sway  to  thy  footsteps ;  my  baby,  good-night. 


LITTLE   BROWN   HANDS. 


57 


Rock-a-by,  hush-a-by,  baby,  my  love, 

Angels  are  watching  thy  cradle  above. 

Thy  feet  into  Byloland's  dreamy  delight 

Have  entered ;  then  rest,  little  pilgrim,  good-night. 


Little  Brown  Hands. 

MARY   HANNAH   KROUT. 

THEY  drive  home  the  cows  from  the  pasture, 
Up  through  the  long  shady  lane, 
Where  the  quails  whistle  loud  in  the  wheat  fields 
That  are  yellow  with  ripening  grain. 

They  find  in  the  thick,  waving  grasses, 
Where  the  scarlet-lipped  strawberry  grows,  — 
They  gather  the  earliest  snowdrops 
And  the  first  crimson  buds  of  the  rose. 

They  toss  the  new  hay  in  the  meadow,  — 

They  gather  the  elder-bloom  white, 

They  find  where  the  dusky  grapes  purple 

In  the  soft-tinted  October  light. 

They  know  where  the  apples  hang  ripest, 

And  are  sweeter  than  Italy  wines,  — 

They  know  where  the  fruit  hangs  the  thickest 

On  the  long,  thorny  blackberry  vines. 

They  gather  the  delicate  seaweed, 
And  build  tiny  castles  of  sand ; 
They  pick  up  the  beautiful  seashells, 
Fairy  barks  that  have  drifted  to  land ; 


58  POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

They  wave  from  the  tall,  rocking  tree-tops, 
Where  the  oriole's  hammock  nest  swings, 
And  at  night-time  are  folded  to  slumber 
By  a  song  that  a  fond  mother  sings. 

Those  who  toil  bravely  are  strongest, 
The  humble  and  poor  become  great, 
And  from  these  brown-handed  children 
Shall  grow  mighty  rulers  of  state. 
The  pen  of  the  author  and  scholar,  — 
The  noble  and  wise  of  the  land,  — 
The  chisel,  the  sword,  and  the  palette, 
Shall  be  held  in  the  little  brown  hand. 


"  Fot  would  you  take  for  Me  ? ' 

SILAS   B.    McMANUS. 

SHE  was  ready  for  bed  and  lay  on  my  arm, 
In  her  little  frilled  cap  so  fine, 
With  her  golden  hair  falling  out  at  the  edge, 

Like  a  circle  of  noon  sunshine. 
And  I  hummed  the  old  tunes  of  "  Banbury  cross," 

And  "  Three  men  who  put  out  to  sea," 
When  she  sleepingly  said,  as  she  closed  her  blue  eyes, 
"  Papa,  fot  would  you  take  for  me  ?  " 

And  I  answered,  "  A  dollar,  dear  little  heart," 
And  she  slept,  baby,  weary  with  play ; 

But  I  held  her  long  in  my  love-strong  arms, 
And  rocked  her  and  rocked  away. 


TRIBUTE   TO  A  CHILD.  59 

0  !  the  dollar  meant  all  the  world  to  me, 
The  land,  and  the  sea,  and  the  sky, 

The  lowest  depth  of  the  lowest  place, 
The  highest  of  all  that's  high. 

The  cities  with  streets  and  palaces, 
Their  pictures  and  stores  of  art, 

1  would  not  take  for  one  low,  soft  throb 
Of  my  little  one's  loving  heart. 

Nor  all  the  gold  that  ever  was  found 

In  the  busy,  wealth-finding  past, 
Would  I  take  for  one  smile  of  my  darling's  lips, 

Did  I  know  it  must  be  the  last. 

So  I  rocked  my  baby,  and  rocked  away, 

And  I  felt  such  a  sweet  content, 
For  the  words  of  the  song  expressed  to  me  more 

Than  they  ever  before  had  meant ; 
And  the  night  crept  on,  and  I  slept  and  dreamed 

Of  things  far  too  glad  to  be, 
'Til  1  wakened,  with  lips  saying  close  in  my  ear, 

"  Papa,  fot  would  you  take  for  me  ?  " 

Tribute  to  a   Child. 

ORAN   K.    PARKER. 

SWEET  is  the  distant  chime  of  village  bells  at  twilight 
hour, 
The  prayerful  hope  of  life  beyond  the  tomb ; 
Pure  is  the  morning  dew  that  scintillates  on  leaf  and 
flower, 
The  tender  lily,  in  its  virgin  bloom. 


60  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Sweet  is  the  Summer  night  when  Luna,  full,  her  love- 
light  sheds, 
The  plaintive  cooing  of  the  dove,  afar ; 
Dreams  of  Elysian  climes,  where  flowers  eternal  nod 
their  heads, 
The  Autumn  haze  that  veils  the  evening  star. 

Who   hath  not  welcomed,   with   a   grateful    heart,  the 
Spring-time  birds, 

And  felt  the  charm  their  melodies  bestow  ? 
Sweet  is  the  sacred  trust  of  happy  love's  confiding  words, 

The  matchless  splendor  of  the  sunset  glow. 

On  balmy  days  what  peace  exists  in  some  sequestered  dell, 
'Mid  flower,  fern,  and  interclinging  vine ! 

What  joys  born  in  the  soulful  strains  of  music's  magic 
spell, 
What  loves  take  wing,  what  eloquence  divine ! 

But  of  all  graces  born  to  bless  our  weary,  erring  kind 
None  to  thine  own,  dear,  prattling  babe,  compare. 

Embodiment  of  Love  and  Hope  and  Purity  combined : 
Oh  !  Babe  —  God's  answer  to  an  earth-born  prayer  ! 

A  Requiem. 

ROBERT   E.    PRETLOW. 

A  SOB  from  the  wind, 
And  a  sigh  from  the  rain, 
And  a  tear  from  the  tender  flower, 
And  the  long  night  sounded  a  sad  refrain 
Hour  after  weary  hour. 


GRANNY'S  COME  TO  OUR  HOUSE.         6 1 

The  rain  fell  slow, 

And  the  wind  sung  low, 

And  the  flower  drooped  its  head, 

For  the  little  child  that  loved  them  so  — 

The  little  child  was  dead. 


Granny's  come  to  our  House. 

JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY. 

(By  permission  of  The  Bowen-Merrill  Co.~) 

GRANNY'S  come  to  our  house ! 
An'  ho  !  my  lawzy-daisy  ! 
All  the  childern  round  the  place 

Is  ist  a-runnin'  crazy  ! 
Fetched  a  cake  fer  little  Jake, 

An'  fetched  a  pie  fer  Nanny, 
An'  fetched  a  pear  fer  all  the  pack 
'At  runs  to  kiss  their  Granny  ! 

Lucy  Ellen's  in  her  lap, 

An'  Wade  an'  Silas  Walker 
Both's  a-ridin'  on  her  foot, 

An'  'Polios  on  the  rocker  ; 
An'  Marthy's  twins,  from  Aunt  Marinn's, 

An'  little  Orphant  Annie, 
All's  a-eatin'  gingerbread, 

An'  giggle-un  at  Granny  ! 


62  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Tells  us  all  the  fairy  tales 

Ever  thought  er  wondered  — 
An'  'bundance  o'  other  stories  — 

Bet  she  knows  a  hunderd  —  ! 
Bob's  the  one  fer  "  Whittington," 

An'  "  Golden  Locks  "  fer  Fanny ! 
Hear  'em  laugh  an'  clap  their  hands 

Listenun'  at  Granny ! 

"Jack  the  Giant-Killer"  's  good  — 

An'  "Bean-Stalk"  's  another  — 
So's  the  one  of  "  Cinderell'  " 

And  her  old  godmother;  — 
That-un's  best  of  all  the  rest  — 

Bestest  one  of  any,  — 
Where  the  mices  scampers  home 

Like  we  runs  to  Granny ! 

Granny's  come  to  our  house ! 

Ho  !  my  lawzy-daisy  ! 
All  the  childern  round  the  place 

Is  ist  a-runnin'  crazy  ! 
Fetched  a  cake  fer  little  Jake, 

An'  fetched  a  pie  fer  Nanny, 
An'  fetched  a  pear  fer  all  the  pack 

'At  runs  to  kiss  their  Granny ! 


OUT  TO   OLD   AUNT   MARY'S.  63 

Out  to  Old  Aunt   Mary's. 

JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY. 

(By  permission  of  The  Bowen-Merrill  Co.) 

WASN'T  it  pleasant,  O  brother  mine, 
In  those  old  days  of  the  lost  sunshine 
Of  youth  —  when  the  Saturday  chores  were  through, 
And  the  "Sunday's  wood"  in  the  kitchen,  too, 
And  we  went  visiting,  "  me  and  you," 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's  ? 

It  all  comes  back  so  clear  to-day  ! 
Though  I  am  as  bald  as  you  are  gray  — 
Out  by  the  barn-lot,  and  down  the  lane, 
We  patter  along  in  the  dust  again, 
As  light  as  the  tips  of  the  drops  of  rain, 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's  ! 

We  cross  the  pasture,  and  through  the  wood 
Where  the  old  gray  snag  of  the  poplar  stood, 
Where  the  hammering  "  red-heads  "  hopped  awry, 
And  the  buzzard  "  raised  "  in  the  "  clearing  "-sky 
And  lolled  and  circled,  as  we  went  by, 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  then  in  the  dust  of  the  road  again ; 
And  the  teams  we  met,  and  the  countrymen ; 
And  the  long  highway,  with  sunshine  spread 
As  thick  as  butter  on  country  bread, 
Our  cares  behind,  and  our  hopes  ahead, 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 


64  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Why,  I  see  her  now  in  the  open  door 
Where  the  little  gourds  grew  up  the  sides,  and  o'er 
The  clapboard  roof  !  —  And  her  face  —  ah  me ! 
Wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  see  — 
And  wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  be 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's  ? 

And  O  my  brother,  so  far  away, 
This  is  to  tell  you  she  waits  to-day 
To  welcome  us:  —  Aunt  Mary  fell 
Asleep  this  morning,  whispering,  "  Tell 
The  boys  to  come ! "     And  all  is  well 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

The  Lost  Kiss. 

JAMES    WHITCOMB    RILEY. 

(By  permission  of The  Bowen- Merrill  Co.) 

I  PUT  by  the  half-written  poem, 
While  the  pen,  idly  trailed  in  my  hand, 
Writes  on,  —  "  Had  I  words  to  complete  it, 

Who'd  read  it,  or  who'd  understand  ?  " 
But  the  little  bare  feet  on  the  stairway, 

And  the  faint,  smothered  laugh  in  the  hall, 
And  the  eerie-low  lisp  on  the  silence, 
Cry  up  to  me  over  it  all. 

So  I  gather  it  up  —  where  was  broken 
The  tear-faded  thread  of  my  theme, 

Telling  how,  as  one  night  I  sat  writing, 
A  fairy  broke  in  on  my  dream ; 


JAMES   WHITCOMB    RILEY. 


THE   LOST  KISS.  65 

A  little  inquisitive  fairy  — 

My  own  little  girl,  with  the  gold 
Of  the  sun  in  her  hair,  and  the  dewy 

Blue  eyes  of  the  fairies  of  old. 

'T  was  the  dear  little  girl  that  I  scolded  — 

"  For  was  it  a  moment  like  this," 
I  said,  "  when  she  knew  I  was  busy, 

To  come  romping  in  for  a  kiss  ?  — 
Come  rowdying  up  from  her  mother, 

And  clamoring  there  at  my  knee 
For  '  One  'ittle  kiss  for  my  dolly, 

And  one  'ittle  uzzer  for  me!'" 

God,  pity  the  heart  that  repelled  her, 

And  the  cold  hand  that  turned  her  away  ! 
And  take,  from  the  lips  that  denied  her, 

This  answerless  prayer  of  to-day  ! 
Take,  Lord,  from  my  mem'ry  forever 

That  pitiful  sob  of  despair, 
And  the  patter  and  trip  of  the  little  bare  feet, 

And  the  one  piercing  cry  on  the  stair ! 

I  put  by  the  half-written  poem, 

While  the  pen,  idly  trailed  in  my  hand, 
Writes  on,  —  "  Had  I  words  to  complete  it, 

Who'd  read  it,  or  who'd  understand  ?  " 
But  the  little  bare  feet  on  the  stairway, 

And  the  faint,  smothered  laugh  in  the  hall, 
And  the  eerie-low  lisp  on  the  silence, 

Cry  up  to  me  over  it  all. 


66  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Come  Back,   Little  Children. 

MRS.  CORNELIA   LAWS   ST.    JOHN. 

COME  back  to  my  arms,  little  children  ! 
Back  through  the  fields  brown  and  still ; 
Where  your  footsteps  went  out  in  Life's  morning, 

To  the  great  world,  far  over  the  hill. 
Come  back,  o'er  the  fields  lying  sodden 

And  dim  in  the  cold  winter  rain ; 
For  my  starving  heart  waiteth  to  fold  you 
To  my  bosom  again  and  again. 

The  mist  from  the  low  lands  upriseth, 

To  the  sad,  starless  fields  of  the  sky  — 
Come,  for  the  pathway  is  fading, 

And  the  evening  shades  fast  multiply. 
Bring  back  your  pure  hearts  of  the  morning  : 

Lay  down  your  sad  burden  of  years, 
And  come  to  me  only  as  children, 

With  your  child-hymns,  your  laughter  and  tears. 

Come  back  to  my  arms,  little  children  ! 

Back  in  your  innocence  sweet, 
With  the  hand  of  your  Maker  yet  on  you, 

And  the  May-flowers  under  your  feet. 
My  arms  to  the  dim  faded  meadows, 

For  your  forms,  stretch  in  hungering  quest. 
Return,  like  the  swallows  of  summer, 

Again  to  your  desolate  nest. 


SIX   LITTLE   FEET   ON  THE   FENDER.  67 

Come  back  in  your  robes  white  and  sinless, 

Your  dimples  and  soft,  shining  hair, 
Come  back  in  your  marvelous  beauty 

That  only  the  guiltless  may  wear. 
Dear  circle  of  long-vanished  faces, 

Turn  back  through  the  twilight  of  years, 
And  gladden  for  one  blissful  moment 

These  loving  eyes  laden  with  tears. 


Six  Little  Feet  on   the   Fender. 

MRS.    CORNELIA   LAWS   ST.   JOHN. 

IN  my  heart  there  lives  a  picture, 
Of  a  kitchen  rude  and  old, 
Where  the  firelight  tripped  o'er  the  rafters, 
And  reddened  the  roof's  brown  mold  ; 
Gilding  the  steam  from  the  kettle 
That  hummed  on  the  foot-worn  hearth, 
Throughout  all  the  livelong  evening, 
Its  measure  of  drowsy  mirth. 

Because  of  the  three  light  shadows 
That  frescoed  that  rude  old  room  — 
Because  of  the  voices  echoed, 
Up  'mid  the  rafters'  gloom  — 
Because  of  the  feet  on  the  fender, 
Six  restless,  white  little  feet  — 
The  thoughts  of  that  dear  old  kitchen 
Are  to  me  so  fresh  and  sweet. 


68  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

When  the  first  dash  on  the  window 
Told  of  the  coming  rain, — 
Oh !  where  are  the  fair  young  faces, 
That  crowded  against  the  pane  ? 
While  bits  of  firelight  stealing 
Their  dimpled  cheeks  between, 
Went  struggling  out  in  the  darkness, 
In  shreds  of  silver  sheen. 


Two  of  the  feet  grew  weary, 

One  dreary  dismal  day, 

And  we  tied  them  with  snow-white  ribbons, 

Leaving  him  there  by  the  way. 

There  was  fresh  clay  on  the  fender 

That  weary,  wintry  night, 

For  the  four  little  feet  had  tracked  it 

From  his  grave  on  the  hill's  lone  height. 

Oh  !  why,  on  this  darksome  evening, 

This  evening  of  rain  and  sleet, 

Rest  my  feet  alone  on  the  hearth-stone  ? 

Oh  !  where  are  those  other  feet  ? 

Are  they  treading  the  pathway  of  virtue 

That  will  bring  us  together  above  ? 

Or  have  they  made  steps  that  will  dampen 

A  sister's  tireless  love  ? 


BABY'S   SERENADE.  69 

Baby's  Serenade. 

GEORGE    STOUT. 

WITH  a  song  comes  the  Fay  from  his  cuddledown 
bed, 
In  the  plumes  of  the  pendulous  vines, 
Oh,  he  bows  and  he  scrapes,  and  he  noddles  his  head, 

And  he  cuts  very  queer  monkeyshines. 
Oh,  he  trills  as  he  twangs  on  the  cobwebby  strings 

Of  his  wee  little  tinkling  guitar, 
'T  is  a  soft  serenade  to  the  baby  he  sings, 
"  What  a  dear  little  baby  you  are, 

My  dear, 
What  a  dear  little  baby  you  are." 

Oh,  the  cradle  swings  soft,  and  the  mother  sings  low, 

'T  is  the  song  that  the  katydids  sing 
Of  a  land  where  the  dreams  in  the  rivulets  flow, 

Of  a  kingdom  where  Shuteye  is  king, 
And  the  night  wind  is  sweet  with  the  dreams  of  the 
flowers, 

For  the  angels  are  winging  them  by. 
There's  a  sweet  little  prayer  for  this  baby  of  ours  — 

"  May  the  winter  bring  never  a  sigh, 

My  dear, 

May  the  winter  bring  never  a  sigh." 


70  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The   Patter  of  Little  Feet. 

MRS.    SUSAN   E.   WALLACE. 

UP  with  the  sun  at  morning, 
Away  to  the  garden  he  hies, 
To  see  if  the  sleepy  blossoms 

Have  begun  to  open  their  eyes. 
Running  a  race  with  the  wind, 

His  step  as  light  and  fleet, 
Under  my  window  I  hear 
The  patter  of  little  feet. 

Anon  to  the  brook  he  wanders, 

In  swift  and  noiseless  flight ; 
Splashing  the  sparkling  waters, 

Like  a  fairy  water  sprite. 
No  sand  under  fabled  river 

Has  gleams  like  his  golden  hair; 
No  pearly  seashell  is  fairer 

Than  his  slender  ankles  bare  ; 
Nor  the  rosiest  stem  of  coral 

That  blushes  in  Ocean's  bed, 
Is  sweet  as  the  flush  that  follows 

Our  darling's  airy  tread. 

From  a  broad  window,  my  neighbor 
Looks  down  on  our  little  cot, 

And  watches  the  "  poor  man's  blessing  " 
I  cannot  envy  his  lot. 

He  has  pictures,  books,  and  music, 
Bright  fountains  and  noble  trees, 

Flowers  that  blossom  in  vases, 


THE   PATTER   OF   LITTLE   FEET. 

Birds  from  beyond  the  seas ; 
But  never  does  childish  laughter 

His  homeward  footsteps  greet ; 
His  stately  halls  ne'er  echo 

The  tread  of  innocent  feet. 

This  child  is  our  "  speaking  picture  "  ; 

A  birdling  that  chatters  and  sings  ; 
Sometimes  a  sleeping  cherub — 

(Our  other  one  has  wings.) 
His  heart  is  a  charmed  casket, 

Full  of  all  that's  cunning  and  sweet ; 
And  no  harpstrings  hold  such  music 

As  follows  his  twinkling  feet. 


71 


When  the  glory  of  sunset  opens 

The  highway  by  angels  trod, 
And  seems  to  unbar  the  City 

Whose  Builder  and  Maker  is  God, 
Close  to  the  crystal  portal, 

I  see,  by  the  gates  of  pearl, 
The  eyes  of  our  other  angel, 

A  twin-born  little  girl. 

And  I  ask  to  be  taught  and  directed 

To  guide  his  footsteps  aright, 
So  that  I  may  be  accounted  worthy 

To  walk  in  sandals  of  light ; 
And  hear,  amid  songs  of  welcome, 

From  messengers  trusty  and  fleet, 
On  the  starry  floor  of  Heaven, 

The  patter  of  little  feet. 


72  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 


The  Lost   Child. 

MRS.    ELIZABETH   CONWELL  WILLSON. 

A  CHILD  is  lost ! 
A  child  whose  gentle  breath  seemed  drawn 
From  holier  atmosphere, 
So  sweet  the  life  it  led  :  at  dawn 
That  sweet  life  vanished,  wandering  on 
Through  sunward  pathways  clear. 

A  bird  hath  flown  ! 
A  bird  whose  timid  pinions  seemed 

Too  frail  for  distant  flight ! 
He  left  us  as  the  morning  beamed  : 
"  The  night  will  bring  him  "  —  so  we  dreamed ; 

But  he  came  not  at  night ! 

He  is  not  lost !  — 
The  child  whose  white  feet  nearer  prest 

Earth's  highway  dust  and  dew ! 
The  bird  that  left  our  earthly  nest 
In  Heavenly  Freedom  sings  the  best 

The  heavenly  notes  he  knew. 


POEMS    OF    HOME. 


Grandfather. 

ALBION   FELLOWS    BACON. 

HOW  broad  and  deep  was  the  fireplace  old, 
And  the  gray  hearthstone  how  wide ! 
There  was  always  room  for  the  old  man's  chair 

By  the  cozy  chimney-side, 
And  all  of  the  children  that  cared  to  crowd 
At  his  knee  in  the  evening-tide. 

Room  for  all  of  the  homeless  ones 

Who  had  nowhere  else  to  go  ; 
They  might  bask  at  ease  in  the  grateful  warmth, 

And  sun  in  the  cheerful  glow  ; 
For  grandfather's  heart  was  as  wide  and  warm 

As  the  old  fireplace,  I  know. 

And  he  always  found  at  his  well-spread  board 

Just  room  for  another  chair ; 
There  was  always  rest  for  another  head 

On  the  pillow  of  his  care  ; 
There  was  always  place  for  another  name 

In  his  trustful  morning  prayer. 

O  crowded  world  with  your  jostling  throngs, 
How  narrow  you  grow,  and  small ; 

75 


76  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

How  cold,  like  a  shadow  across  the  heart, 

Your  selfishness  seems  to  fall, 
When  I  think  of  that  fireplace,  warm  and  wide, 

And  the  welcome  awaiting  all. 


A   Cottage   Portrait. 

CLARENCE   A.    BUSKIRK. 

WITHIN  my  humble  hall  there  hangs  against  the 
wall 
A  fairer  flower  than  summer  garlands  show  — 
A  beautiful  old  face,  whose  gentleness  and  grace 
Beam  forth  like  winter  flowers  beside  the  snow. 

How  calm  the  light  that  lies  within  those  dear  old  eyes ! 

How  noble  the  sad  patience  of  that  brow ! 
Those  furrows  which  the  years  wore  deep  with  many 
tears  — 

Ah  !  how  serene  beneath  life's  sunset  now  ! 

While  on  that  face  I  gaze  my  fancy  seeks  the  days — 
Long  vanished  —  which  her  laughing  girlhood  knew; 

I  see  the  well-sweep  move  she  oft  has  told  me  of  ; 
And  forest  paths  her  bare  feet  rambled  through. 

And  then  my  fancy  strays  to  those  romantic  days 
When  she,  a  maid,  built  castles  in  the  air, 

And  saw  in  bright  day-dreams  idyllic  vales  and  streams 
Where  dwelt  no  sordid  soul,  and  all  was  fair. 


LONGING   FOR   HOME.  77 

Ah  me !  all  now  remains  of  all  her  joys  and  pains 
Seems  pictured  in  that  face  upon  the  wall ! 

Alas !  that  life  should  bloom  so  near  the  voiceless  tomb, 
Which,  to  our  mortal  senses,  buries  all ! 


Constant  and  faithful  friend,  within  these  lines  I  send 
My  greetings  unto  thee,  where'er  thou  art ; 

For,  like  a  thornless  rose,  thy  lovely  memory  grows 
And  blossoms  at  the  gateway  of  my  heart ! 


Longing  for   Home. 

(Written  at  Lake  Leman,  Switzerland.) 

SARAH   T.    BOLTON. 

I  HAVE  climbed  the  snow-capped  mountains, 
Sailed  on  many  a  storied  river, 
And  have  brushed  the  dust  of  ages 
From  gray  monuments  sublime ; 
I  have  seen  the  grand  old  pictures 

That  the  world  enshrines  forever, 
And  the  statues  that  the  masters 
Left  along  the  paths  of  time. 


But  my  pilgrim  feet  are  weary, 
And  my  spirit  dim  with  dreaming, 

Where  the  long-dead  past  has  written 
Misty  hieroglyphic  lore ; 


78  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

In  a  land  whose  pulses  slumber, 
Or  but  faintly  beat  in  seeming, 

While  the  pathway  of  the  Caesars 
Is  a  ruin  evermore 

Bear  me  back,  O  mighty  Ocean ! 

From  this  old  world,  gray  and  gory, 
To  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 

Far  beyond  thy  stormy  waves  ; 
To  the  land  that  Freedom  fostered 

To  gigantic  strength  and  glory, 
To  the  home-land,  with  its  loved  ones, 

And  its  unforgotten  graves. 

Give  me  back  my  little  cottage, 

And  the  dear  old  trees  I  planted, 
And  the  common,  simple  blossoms 

That  once  bloomed  around  my  door ; 
And  the  old,  familiar  home  songs 

That  my  children's  voices  chanted, 
And  the  few  who  used  to  love  me,  — 

And  my  heart  will  ask  no  more. 

Lost. 

ALLAN   SIMPSON   BOTSFORD. 

THERE'S  a  long  green  lane  where  the  cattle  low, 
With  a  clump  of  trees  behind  it ; 
I  knew  where  it  was  long,  long  ago 
With  its  elder-blossoms  white  as  snow, 
But  to-day  I  cannot  find  it. 


LOST. 

Down  by  the  old  spring  house  it  went, 

Through  the  wheat  fields  and  the  clover ; 

The  roses  into  its  hedges  bent, 

Left  all  their  sweets  as  a  testament 

To  the  bees  that  droned  it  over. 

Into  that  pastoral  avenue 

The  beauty,  pomp,  and  treasure 
Of  ripe  Arabian  lore  swept  through, 
Or,  pausing,  hung  like  a  drop  of  dew 

In  my  lily  cup  of  leisure. 

Fortune  —  the  Mistress  of  fools  grown  old  — 
Awoke  with  the  noon  quail's  whistle. 

Ah  !  the  things  she  said  and  the  tales  she  told, 

As  over  the  daisy's  drifted  gold 

We  voyaged  with  the  thistle. 

But  that  long  green  lane  where  I  dreamed  of  fame, 
In  the  happy  shades  that  lined  it, 

Is  changed  and  goes  by  some  other  name,  — 

It  is  not,  alas,  to-day  the  same, 

And  I  fear  I'll  never  find  it. 

The  peach  tree's  gone,  and  the  birds  have  fled, 

And  the  sweet  wild  flowers  have  scattered  ; 

That  old  young  dream  of  a  day  is  dead, 

The  bees  have  all  gone  home  to  bed, 

And  the  song  is  torn  and  tattered. 


79 


80  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

But  somehow  still,  down  deep  I  feel 

That  my  steps  are  only  straying  ; 
That  at  last,  the  least  shall  know  and  kneel, 
The  Voice  be  heard  and  the  prayer's  appeal 
When  the  Lord  our  lives  is  weighing. 

That  again  that  long  green  lane  shall  shake 

Its  lisping  leaves  and  bubble 
With  songs  of  birds  in  field  and  brake, 
And  the  humble-bee  his  joy  shall  take 

From  the  primrose  in  the  stubble. 


New  England. 

HENRY  W.    ELLSWORTH. 

NEW  ENGLAND  !     New  England  ! 
How  beautiful  thy  vales, 
Where  summer  flowers  are  breathing  forth 

Their  sweets  of  summer  gales ;  — 
Where  soft  the  wild  note  breaketh 

From  out  each  dewy  grove, 
Where  lone  the  night  bird  chanteth 
Her  even  lay  of  love ! 

Oh,  far  beyond  the  surges  wild 

That  beat  upon  thy  shore, 
Hath  swept  the  paean  of  thy  fame, 

Old  Ocean's  vastness  o'er  ;  — 


NEW   ENGLAND  8 1 

And  echoes  far  the  triumph  song 

Of  that  true-hearted  band, 
Who  gave  their  homes,  their  all,  for  God, 

And  thee,  my  fatherland  ! 

Majestic  are  thy  mountains  green, 

Uptowering  to  the  sky  ; 
Stern  monuments  that  God's  own  hand 

For  aye  hath  piled  on  high ! 
Forever  may  they  guard  thee, 

As  now  the  blessed,  the  free, 
Bright  Eden-land  of  nations, 

Proud  home  of  Liberty ! 

And  beautiful  the  silver  streams 

That  ripple  o'er  thy  breast, 
In  thousand  forms  meandering, 

To  seek  their  ocean  rest ;  — 
Aye,  beautiful !  and  may  they  twine 

Forever  bright  as  now, 
A  fadeless  wreath  of  luster  round 

Thy  clear,  unruffled  brow  ! 

We  love  them,  for  their  legends  tell 

Of  deeds  and  daring  true, 
How  oft  the  hunter  paddled  there,  — 

War  led  his  dark  canoe  — 
And  oft  beside  their  flowery  banks 

'Mid  scenes  that  linger  yet, 
The  Indian  maid —  sweet  nature's  child  — 

Her  Indian  lover  met ! 


82  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  they  are  gone  !  but  fairer  forms 

Now  roam  beneath  thy  skies, 
Whose  priceless  worth,  and  trusting  love, 

Gleam  forth  from  laughing  eyes ; 
Thy  daughters,  like  sweet  flowers  of  spring, 

Bloom  'neath  thy  fostering  care, 
Through  coming  time,  as  now,  to  be 

Thy  treasures,  rich  and  rare. 

Thy  sons !  what  clime  that  knoweth  not 

The  noble  and  the  brave, 
The  tamers  of  the  stubborn  earth, 

The  rovers  of  the  wave  ? 
Aye  !  dearly  do  they  love  the  land 

Their  fathers  died  to  gain ; 
Their  pride,  its  glory  fresh  to  keep, 

Its  honor  bright  from  stain. 

New  England  !  New  England ! 

God's  blessings  on  thee  be ; 
And  ever  on  those  cherished  ones 

Fond  memory  links  with  thee ! 
From  this  fair  land,  whose  spreading  skies 

Like  thine  a  glory  wear, 
My  spirit  turns  to  breathe  for  thee 

A  blessing  and  a  prayer. 


THE   WARDEN   OF  THE   STAIRWAY.  83 

The  Warden  of  the  Stairway. 

ELIJAH   EVAN   EDWARDS. 

IT  stands  like  a  mailed  warrior 
Somber,  and  grim,  and  tall, 
Watching  the  lonely  stairway, 

Guarding  the  lonely  hall ; 
Keeping  watch  and  ward  o'er  the  shadows 
Thronging  the  silent  hall. 

I  pause  on  the  lonely  stairway, 

To  look  on  its  great  white  face, 
To  list  to  the  pendulum  creaking 

In  the  dark  carved  oaken  case ; 
To  count  with  mine  its  heart  throbs, 

To  look  on  its  ghostly  face. 

To  list  to  its  mournful  music 

As  it  syllables  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  moments  eternally  passing, 

But  returning  no  more,  no  more ; 
To  list  to  the  knell  of  the  hours, 

The  hours  that  come  no  more. 

Alone  on  the  lonely  stairway 

I  list  to  its  musical  chime, 
And  it  speaks  to  my  heart  of  the  vanished 

And  beautiful  olden  time  ; 
It  thrills  my  heart  with  the  music 

Of  the  beautiful  olden  time. 


84  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Alas  !  ring  the  musical  voices, 

Alas  !  for  the  years  that  have  fled, 

For  the  golden  hours  departed, 
For  the  happy  days  that  are  dead  ; 

Alas  !  for  the  hopes,  alas  !  for  the  joys, 
That  with  the  days  are  dead. 

Alas  !  for  the  weary  silence 

That  has  followed  the  voice  of  mirth, 

For  the  music  and  song  and  laughter, 
That  are  heard  no  more  on  earth ; 

For  the  sweet  and  musical  voices 
Forever  hushed  on  earth. 

They  have  gone  from  hearthstone  and  threshold, 

The  darlings  of  long  ago  ; 
With  folded  hands  they  are  sleeping 

Under  the  winter's  snow,  — 
Sleeping  the  sleep  that  is  dreamless, 

Under  the  gleaming  snow. 

Ring  on,  ye  sorrowful  voices, 

The  knell  of  the  joys  that  have  fled ; 

Toll,  toll  for  the  dear  departed,  — 
For  the  sweet,  for  the  saintly  dead  ; 

Wail,  wail  for  the  days  that  have  vanished,  — 
For  the  golden  hours  dead ! 

Alone  on  the  lonely  stairway 

I  list  to  the  mournful  chime 
Of  the  quaint  old  timepiece  telling 

And  knelling  the  flight  of  time ; 


ELIJAH    F.VAX    F.DWAKDS. 


THE   HOOSIER'S   NEST.  85 

Wailing  the  golden  hours 
Of  the  beautiful  olden  time. 

They  are  gone,  they  are  gone  forever, 

Like  clouds  from  the  summer  sky, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  of  autumn, 

By  the  storm  wind  driven  by ; 
They  are  gone,  they  are  gone  forever, 

But  their  beauty  cannot  die. 

For  the  voices  of  our  beloved 

Have  echoes  that  sound  afar, 
Which  earth's  din  may  not  silence, 

Which  its  discord  may  not  mar ; 
And  the  light  from  their  true  eyes  beaming 

Shines  farther  than  sun  or  star. 


The   Hoosier's  Nest. 

JOHN    FINLEY. 

I'M  told,  in  riding  somewhere  West, 
A  stranger  found  a  Hoosier's  nest  — 
In  other  words,  a  Buckeye  cabin, 
Just  big  enough  to  hold  Queen  Mab  in ; 
Its  situation,  low,  but  airy, 
Was  on  the  borders  of  a  prairie  ; 
And  fearing  he  might  be  benighted, 
He  hailed  the  house,  and  then  alighted. 

The  Hoosier  met  him  at  the  door  — 
Their  salutations  soon  were  o'er. 


86  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

He  took  the  stranger's  horse  aside, 
And  to  a  sturdy  sapling  tied ; 
Then,  having  stripped  the  saddle  off, 
He  fed  him  in  a  sugar-trough. 

The  stranger  stooped  to  enter  in  — 
The  entrance  closing  with  a  pin  — 
And  manifested  strong  desire 
To  seat  him  by  the  log-heap  fire, 
Where  half  a  dozen  Hoosieroons, 
With  mush-and-milk,  tin  cups,  and  spoons, 
White  heads,  bare  feet,  and  dirty  faces, 
Seemed  much  inclined  to  keep  their  places. 
But  Madam,  anxious  to  display 
Her  rough  but  undisputed  sway, 
Her  offspring  to  the  ladder  led, 
And  cuffed  the  youngsters  up  to  bed. 

Invited  shortly  to  partake 
Of  venison,  milk,  and  johnny-cake, 
The  stranger  made  a  hearty  meal, 
And  glances  round  the  room  would  steal. 

One  side  was  lined  with  divers  garments, 
The  other  spread  with  skins  of  "varmints  " ; 
Dried  pumpkins  overhead  were  strung, 
Where  venison  hams  in  plenty  hung  ; 
Two  rifles  placed  above  the  door  ; 
Three  dogs  lay  stretched  upon  the  floor  — 
In  short,  the  domicile  was  rife 
With  specimens  of  Hoosier  life. 

The  host,  who  center'd  his  affections 
On  game,  and  range,  and  quarter  sections, 
Discoursed  his  weary  guest  for  hours, 


THE   COTTAGE.  87 

Till  Somnus'  all-composing  powers 
Of  sublunary  cares  bereft  'em ; 
And  then  — 

No  matter  how  the  story  ended ; 
The  application  I  intended 
Is  from  the  famous  Scottish  poet, 
Who  seemed  to  feel  as  well  as  know  it, 
That  "  buirdly  chiels  and  clever  hizzies 
Are  bred  in  sic'  a  way  as  this  is." 


The   Cottage. 

JAMES   B.  MARTINDALE. 

THERE'S  a  little  faded  cottage 
Standing  down  upon  the  farm, 
And  its  timbers  are  beginning  to  decay. 

There's  a  rosebush  at  the  window, 
But  the  eyes  it  used  to  charm, 

Like  the  dew  upon  the  leaves,  have  passed  away. 

There  is  silence  in  its  chambers, 

There  is  moss  upon  the  door, 
And  the  ivy  vine  neglected  runs  at  will ; 

But  't  was  there  the  days  of  childhood, 
Happy  days  that  are  no  more, 

Glided  o'er  me  like  a  vapor  on  the  hill. 


I  am  looking  through  the  vista 
Of  the  years  that  lie  between, 


88  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

To  that  cottage  where  my  life  was  like  a  song ; 

To  the  orchard  ;  to  the  garden ; 
To  the  little  meadow  green, 

And  the  vision,  oh,  it  lingers  with  me  long. 

But  the  ceaseless  rush  and  clatter 

Of  the  busy  city  street, 
Come  to  drown  the  sylvan  music  of  the  past. 

Ah  !  life's  struggle,  now  so  weary, 
Once  pursued  with  eager  feet, 

Can  but  bring  a  worthless  victory  at  last. 


When  she  came  Home. 

GAVIN   PAYNE. 

THE  skies  are  bluer  overhead, 
Despite  the  summer  that  is  dead, 
The  trees  are  now  a  brighter  red, 

Since  she  came  home. 
Though  sighing  winds  went  over  land 
Of  faded  gold  ;  though  master  hand 
Gave  sweeping  touch  to  harping  strings 
And  wooed  the  tearfulness  of  things  — 
Yet  all  the  wistfulness  and  pain 
That,  passing,  joined  the  sad  refrain, 
Stole  sweetly,  graciously  away, 
To  leave  me  happy  on  that  day, 

When  she  came  home. 


DESERTED.  89 

Deserted. 

JOHN   N.    TAYLOR. 

OLD  house,  that  sadly  stands  aloof, 
The  dying  year  faint  over  all, 
The  moss  is  on  thy  broken  roof, 
Thy  timbers  lean  unto  their  fall. 

All  blurred  and  dim  thy  panes,  that  gaze 

Upon  the  blue  hills  far  across ; 
Art  thou  thus  brooding  o'er  old  days, 

And  sadly  reckoning  up  thy  loss? 

There's  something  human  in  the  air 

With  which  thou  vvait'st  the  stroke  of  fate : 

The  quietude,  the  mute  despair 

That  comes  when  hopes  are  desolate. 

No  gate  nor  fence  the  herds  repel ; 

The  door  has  fallen  'gainst  the  wall ; 
And  wanton  winds  of  autumn  swell 

Strange  echoes  through  thy  empty  hall : 

Faint  sounds  of  laughter;  childish  feet 

That  flit  the  vacant  rooms  along  ; 
And  in  the  distance,  low  and  sweet, 

A  mother  croons  her  cradle  song ; 


90  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

A  firmer  tread,  a  deeper  tone  ;  — 
Do  they  all  come  thy  grief  to  ease, 

Old  house,  so  broken,  sad,  and  lone, 
Or  are  they  but  thy  memories  ? 


On   Crossing  the  Alleghanies. 

MRS.   LAURA  M.   THURSTON. 

THE  broad,  the  bright,  the  glorious  west 
Is  spread  before  me  now, 
Where  the  gray  mists  of  morning  rest 

Beneath  yon  mountain's  brow. 
The  bound  is  past,  the  goal  is  won, 
The  region  of  the  setting  sun 

Is  open  to  my  view. 
Land  of  the  valiant  and  the  free  — 
My  own  dear  mountain  land  —  to  thee 

And  thine,  a  long  adieu ! 

I  hail  thee,  valley  of  the  west, 

For  what  thou  yet  shalt  be ; 
I  hail  thee  for  the  hopes  that  rest 

Upon  thy  destiny. 
Here,  from  this  mountain's  height,  I  see 
Thy  bright  waves  floating  to  the  sea, 

Thine  emerald  fields  outspread, 
And  feel  that  in  the  book  of  fame, 
Proudly  shall  thy  recorded  name 

In  later  days  be  read. 


ON   CROSSING  THE   ALLEGHANIES.  91 

Yet  while  I  gaze  upon  thee  now, 

All  glorious  as  thou  art, 
A  cloud  is  resting  on  my  brow, 

A  weight  upon  my  heart. 
To  me,  in  all  thy  youthful  pride, 
Thou  art  a  land  of  cares  untried, 

Of  untold  hopes  and  fears 
Thou  art,  —  yet  not  for  thee  I  grieve ; 
But  for  the  far-off  land  I  leave, 

I  look  on  thee  with  tears. 

Oh  !  brightly,  brightly  glow  thy  skies, 

In  summer's  sunny  hours ; 
The  green  earth  seems  a  paradise 

Arrayed  in  summer  flowers. 
But  oh !  there  is  a  land  afar, 
Whose  skies  to  me  are  brighter  far, 

Along  the  Atlantic's  shore  ; 
For  eyes  beneath  their  radiant  shrine, 
In  kindlier  glances  answered  mine,  — 

Can  these  their  light  restore  ? 

Upon  thy  lofty  bound  I  stand, 

That  parts  the  east  and  west ; 
Before  me  lies  a  fairy  land, 

Behind,  a  home  of  rest. 
Here,  Hope  her  wild  enchantment  flings, 
Portraying  bright  and  lovely  things, 

My  footsteps  to  allure  ; 
But  there,  in  memory's  light,  I  see 
All  that  was  once  most  dear  to  me, — 

My  young  heart's  cynosure. 


92  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  Green   Hills  of  my   Fatherland. 

MRS.    LAURA   M.    THURSTON. 

THE   green  hills  of  my  fatherland 
In  dreams  still  greet  my  view; 
I  see  once  more  the  wave-girt  strand, 

The  ocean's  depth  of  blue. 
The  sky,  the  glorious  sky  outspread 

Above  their  calm  repose, 
The  river  o'er  its  rocky  bed 

Still  singing  as  it  flows, 
The  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  hours, 

When  men  go  up  to  pray, 
The  sunlight  resting  on  the  flowers, 
The  birds  that  sing  amid  the  bowers 

Through  all  the  summer  day. 

Land  of  my  birth,  mine  early  love  ! 

Once  more  thine  airs  I  breathe ; 
I  see  thy  proud  hills  tower  above, 

Thy  green  vales  sleep  beneath. 
Thy  groves,  thy  rocks,  thy  murmuring  rills 

All  rise  before  mine  eyes ; 
The  dawn  of  morning  on  thy  hills, 

Thy  gorgeous  sunset  skies  ; 
Thy  forest  from  whose  deep  recess 

A  thousand  streams  have  birth, 
Glad'ning  the  lonely  wilderness, 
And  filling  the  green  silentness 

With  melody  and  mirth. 


THE   GREEN   HILLS   OF   MY   FATHERLAND.  93 

I  wonder  if  my  home  would  seem 

As  lovely  as  of  yore ; 
I  wonder  if  the  mountain  stream 

Goes  singing  by  the  door ; 
And  if  the  flowers  still  bloom  as  fair, 

And  if  the  woodbines  climb, 
As  when  I  used  to  train  them  there 

In  the  dear  olden  time. 
I  wonder  if  the  birds  still  sing 

Upon  the  garden  tree, 
As  sweetly  as  in  that  sweet  spring 
Whose  golden  memories  gently  bring 

So  many  dreams  to  me. 

I  know  that  there  has  been  a  change, 

A  change  o'er  hall  and  hearth  ; 
Faces  and  footsteps  new  and  strange 

About  my  place  of  birth. 
The  heavens  above  are  still  as  bright 

As  in  the  days  gone  by, 
But  vanished  is  the  beacon  light 

That  cheered  the  morning  sky; 
And  hill  and  vale  and  wooded  glen, 

And  rock  and  murmuring  stream, 
That  wore  such  glorious  beauty  then, 
Would  seem,  should  I  return  again, 

The  record  of  a  dream. 

I  mourn  not  for  my  childhood's  hours, 

Since  in  the  far-off  west, 
'Neath  sunnier  skies,  in  greener  bowers, 

My  heart  hath  found  its  rest. 


94  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

I  mourn  not  for  the  hills  and  streams 

That  chained  my  steps  so  long, 
Yet  still  I  see  them  in  my  dreams, 

And  hail  them  in  my  song  ; 
And  often  by  the  hearth-fire's  blaze, 

When  winter  eves  shall  come, 
We'll  sit  and  talk  of  other  days, 
And  sing  the  well-remembered  lays 

Of  my  Green  Mountain  home. 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT. 


Moonlight  on   the  Lake. 

ALBERT  CHARLTON  ANDREWS. 

THROUGHOUT  the   night  a  dreamy  stillness 
reigns  ; 
Our  boat  glides  softly  o'er  the  glassy  lake ; 
The  moon's  mild  magic  casts  its  endless  chains 
Of  gleaming,  glimm'ring  silver  in  our  wake. 

Bright  molten  metal  from  our  oar-blade  falls, 
And  magic  splendor  wraps  our  boat  about ; 

The  mystic  moon  with  sorceress'  spell  enthralls : 
We  drop  our  oars  —  our  phantom  barge  drifts  out. 

A  gentle  rocking  of  the  boat  —  a  sigh  — 
And  thou  art  in  my  yearning  arms  secure ; 

So  silently  beneath  the  starry  sky 

I  search  with  raptured  love  thine  eyes  so  pure. 

Thy  head  rests  on  my  knee  ;  I  have  no  care ; 

Thy  warm  heart  beats  beneath  my  fondling  hand ; 
The  perfume  of  thy  glorious  golden  hair 

My  senses  softly  stirred  cannot  withstand. 

The  pressure  of  thy  soft  hand  thrills  me  through  ; 

Thy  warm  red  lips  meet  mine  in  ecstasy ; 
No  northern  star  could  ever  be  so  true 

As  thy  deep,  loving,  soft  blue  eyes  to  me. 

97 


98  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Ah,  sweetheart,  would  not  death  be  wondrous  sweet 

If  on  a  night  like  this  its  coming  be, 
And  with  our  happiness  so  all-complete, 

We  drifted  dreaming  to  the  deep  blue  sea  ? 


Compensation. 

MRS.    MARIE   L.    ANDREWS. 

THERE  are  smiles  in  the  morning  and  tears  at  night, 
The  wide  world  over  ; 
There  are  hopes  in  the  morning  and  prayers  at  night 
For  many  a  rover. 

There  are  tears  unwept,  and  songs  unsung, 

And  human  anguish  keen, 
And  hopes  and  fears  and  smiles  and  tears ; 

But  the  blessings  fall  between. 


At  Seventeen. 

GRANVILLE   M.    BALLARD. 

BEHOLD,  he  stands 
Where  golden  sands 
And  bright-hued  shells  begirt  life's  sea 
His  full-orbed  eye 
Reads  in  the  sky 
No  sign  of  storm  that  is  to  be. 


AT   SEVENTEEN. 

Parental  halls 

And  garden  walls 
His  restless  feet  cannot  restrain  ; 

He  tiptoe  stands, 

Beholding  lands 
That  rise  beyond  the  rolling  main. 

His  ardent  breast 

Feels  that  unrest 
And  longing  for  the  bright  unknown, 

That  vague  untold 

That  must  enfold 
The  unpossessed  as  all  its  own. 

The  inward  fire 

Of  grand  desire 
Feeds  all  the  passions  of  his  soul ; 

He  aspires  to  rise 

Above  the  skies, 
And  view  the  lands  from  pole  to  pole. 

He  looks  and  longs 

And  hears  the  songs 
That  ocean  syllables  alway, 

Of  islands  green, 

That  lie  unseen 
Beyond  the  outer  gates  of  day. 

> 
Oh,  wanton  boy, 
With  phantoms  toy, 


99 


IOO  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

While  hope  is  strong  and  fancy  free ; 

Go  gather  shells 

Where  ocean  swells, 
And  watch  thy  ships  go  out  to  sea. 


Robin's-Egg  Blue. 

MARGARET  HOLMES  BATES. 

ROBIN'S-EGG  blue  was  the  bonnet  she  wore; 
Her  bodice  was  laced  behind  and  before 
With  cords  of  a  shimmering,  silvery  glint ; 
Each  fold  of  her  gown  gave  a  shadowy  hint, 
A  shadowy  hinting  of  color,  no  more. 


A  glove  that  I  know  I  found  on  the  floor 
(Some  day  to  its  owner  this  glove  I'll  restore), 
Like  the  hat  and  the  gown,  of  that  exquisite  tint, 

Robin's-egg  blue. 


I  knelt  at  her  feet ;  my  gear  and  my  store, 
My  heart  and  my  soul,  my  wisdom  and  lore, 
Were  hers  for  the  taking,  were  hers  without  stint,  — 
Were  I  Solomon's  self,  my  fortune  a  mint ;  — 
"  What  she  said  ?  "    Never  mind  —  since  that  hour  I 
adore 

Robin's-egg  blue. 


LOVE'S   PRAYER.  I0I 

As  we  Treasure. 

G.    HENRI    BOGART. 

SOMEWHERE,  somehow, 
From  out  our  past, 
We  treasure  what  was  pleasant ; 
And,  linked  by  mem'ry's  mystic  chain, 
Unite  it  with  our  present. 

Somewhere,  somehow, 

Among  our  joys, 
We  find  the  things  we  cherish, 
While  hate  and  grief  and  sullen  pain 
We  leave  in  gloom  to  perish. 

Somewhere,  somehow, 

The  deed  of  love 
That  made  us  better,  truer, 
Beyond  our  ken,  shall  live  again, 
And  make  our  sorrows  fewer. 


Love's    Prayer. 

MATTIE   DYER   BRITTS. 

GOOD-BYE,  dear  love.     God  guide  thee, 
No  evil  thing  betide  thee, 
No  sorrow  rest  beside  thee, 

And  this  thy  comfort  be, 


102  POETS   AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

That  when  the  day  is  ending, 
To  heaven  I'm  lowly  bending, 
And  softly  upward  sending 

A  prayer  at  home  for  thee. 

I  miss  the  kind  hand  pressing 
My  own  with  soft  caressing, 
I  miss  the  murmured  blessing 

Which  mine  was  wont  to  be ; 
I  miss  the  fond  lips  meeting 
My  own  with  tender  greeting, 
I  miss  the  true  heart  beating 

So  warm  with  love  for  me. 

God  bless  thee,  dear  !     And  nightly 
Sweet  slumbers  woo  thee  lightly, 
Sweet  visions  cheer  thee  brightly, 

And  this  thy  solace  be  : 
That  when  the  day  is  breaking, 
I,  too,  from  sleep  am  waking 
To  thoughts  of  love,  and  making 
A  prayer  at  home  for  thee. 

Woman  and  Artist. 

MRS.    ALICE   WILLIAMS   BROTHERTON. 

(By  permission,  from  the  Century  Magazine. .) 
THOUGHT  to  win  me  a  name 


I 


Should  ring  in  the  ear  of  the  world. 
How  can  I  work  with  wee  pink  fists 
About  my  fingers  curled  ? 


PASSING. 

Adieu  to  name  and  to  fame ! 

They  scarce  are  worth,  at  the  best, 
One  touch  of  this  warm  little,  wet  little  mouth 

With  its  lips  against  my  breast. 

Passing. 

ALICE   WILLIAMS   BROTHERTON. 

(By  permission,  from  the  Century  Magazine, .) 

"  A  \  7HAT  ship  is  this  comes  sailing 

*  V       Across  the  harbor  bar, 
So  strange,  yet  half  familiar, 

With  treasure  from  afar  ? 
O  comrades,  shout,  good  bells,  ring  out, 

Peal  loud  your  merry  din  ! 
O  joy  !     At  last  across  the  bay 

My  ship  comes  sailing  in." 
Men  said,  in  low  whispers : 

"  It  is  the  passing  bell ; 
At  last  his  toil  is  ended." 

They  prayed,  "  God  rest  him  well." 

"  Ho  Captain,  my  Captain, 

What  store  have  you  on  board  ?  " 
"A  treasure  far  richer 

Than  gems  or  golden  hoard,  — 
The  broken  promise  welded  firm, 

The  long  forgotten  kiss, 
The  love  more  worth  than  all  on  earth, 

All  joys  life  seemed  to  miss  !  " 


103 


104  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

The  watchers  sighed  softly  : 
"  It  is  the  death  change  ; 

What  vision  blest  has  given 

That  rapture  deep  and  strange  ? " 


"  O  Captain,  dear  Captain, 

What  are  the  forms  I  see 
On  deck  there  beside  you  ? 

They  smile  and  beckon  me ; 
And  soft  voices  call  me, 

Those  voices  sure  I  know  !  " 
"  All  friends  are  here  that  you  held  dear 

In  the  sweet  long  ago." 
"The  death  smile,"  they  murmured, 

"  It  is  so  passing  sweet, 
We  scarce  have  heart  to  hide  it 

Beneath  the  winding  sheet." 

"  O  Captain,  I  know  you  ! 

Are  you  not  Christ  the  Lord  ? 
With  light  heart  and  joyous 

I  hasten  now  on  board. 
Set  sail,  set  sail  before  the  gale, 

Our  trip  will  soon  be  o'er ; 
To-night  we'll  cast  our  anchor  fast 

Beside  the  heavenly  shore  !  " 
Men  sighed  :  "  Lay  him  gently 

Beneath  the  heavy  sod." 
The  soul  afar,  beyond  the  bar, 

Went  sailing  on  to  God. 


PILOTED.  105 


Kalmia. 


JEROME   C.    BURNETT. 


AS  one  will  take  a  book  read  through 
And  turn  its  leaves, 
And  dwell  upon  its  scenes  anew, 

While  memory  weaves 
Again  the  storied  web  that's  half  divine, 
Even  so,  sweet  flower,  I  muse  while  turning  thine. 

The  story  of  another  year 

Of  pride  and  pain 
Old  time  hath  told,  since,  blooming  here 

Amid  thy  train, 
I  met  thee,  splendid  in  thy  regal  sheen, 
Where  now  I  give  thee  homage  due  a  queen. 

The  homage  of  a  grateful  heart, 

Regard  that  words 
Cannot  translate  ;  the  higher  art 

In  songs  of  birds 
I  fain  would  give,  in  all  their  soul-felt  glee, 
To  typify  the  love  I  bring  to  thee. 

October  27,  1878. 

Piloted. 

EMMA   N.    CARLETON. 

THE  thistle  floats  a  fairy  bark 
On  seas  of  silvery  space  : 
Though  none  may  helm  or  rigging  mark, 
Or  its  far  moorings  trace. 


106  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

But  hid  within  its  cargo  fine 
Are  chart  and  orders  clear, 

To  bear  it  on,  in  storm  or  shine, 
Through  voyage  of  the  year. 


Bubbles. 

EMMA   N.    CARLETON. 

THE  air  is  full  of  bubbles,  rose  and  gray, 
Which  dreamers  still  keep  blowing,  day  by  day 
I  waft  you  one,  my  dear;  but,  ah,  just  see, 
It  breaks  against  the  one  you  blew  for  me. 


In  the   Golden  World. 

EMMA   N.    CARLETON. 

AH,  once  we  fared  to  Arcady  — 
The  road  lured  onward,  rich  and  free 
All  time  was  heavenly  ;  skies  were  blue  ; 
The  world  was  music,  sweet  and  new. 

Now  fades  the  rose-flush  ;  skies  are  gray  ; 
Loved  strains  but  echo  ;  well-a-day  ! 
Though  paths  wind  where  no  meetings  be, 
Ah,  once  we  fared  to  Arcady. 


ISABEL   LEE.  1 07 


Isabel    Lee. 


M.    LOUISA   CHITWOOD. 


"/^VH  !  which  of  my  lovers  is  thinking  of  me  ? 

V_y    For  my  cheek's  like  a  cherry,"  said  Isabel  Lee, 
As  pressed  she  her  little  white  hand  on  her  brow ; 
"  Through  whose  precious  heart  is  my  name  sounding 

now  ? 
Is  it  Harold,  the  artist,  the  while  he  doth*paint, 
With  a  smile  on  his  lips,  the  fair  face  of  the  saint, 
Which  he  said,  in  the  hour  of  our  parting,  should  wear 
A  brow  like  mine  own  and  the  same  golden  hair  ? " 
Yes,  Isabel  Lee,  the  sweet  pride  of  the  glen, 
The  artist  was  nursing  thy  memory  then  ; 
But  he  looked  on  the  face  he  was  painting  with  dread, 
For,  somehow,  it  bore  the  calm  look  of  the  dead. 


Sweet  Isabel  Lee,  to  the  lattice  she  went, 

And  her  rosy-hued  cheek  on  her  folded  hands  bent. 

She  mocked  the  gay  thrush  on  the  old  cherry  tree 

With  "  Which  of  my  lovers  is  thinking  of  me  ? 

Is  it  Robert  the  hunter,  afar  on  the  moor  ? 

This  morn,  ere  the  sunrise,  he  stood  at  my  door ; 

He  sued  for  a. rose,  that  was  just  to  unfold, 

And  said  he  would  deem  it  more  precious  than  gold. 

I  have  heard,  through  the  wood,  his  old  rifle  ring  out, 

And  the  bay  of  his  hounds  in  victorious  shout 


108  POETS   AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

But  once  since  he  left,  and  the  noon  is  now  past, 
And  the  shadows  creep  up  to  the  garden  gate  fast. 
I  wonder,  I  wonder  if  out  on  the  lea, 
Dear  Robert,  the  hunter,  is  thinking  of  me." 

Yes,  Isabel  Lee,  the  sweet  pride  of  the  glen, 
The  hunter  was  nursing  thy  memory  then  ; 
For  as  to  his  lips  thy  sweet  rosebud  was  pressed, 
The  slight  stem  was  broken,  it  fell  on  his  breast. 

Sweet  Isabel  Lee,  she  heard  the  birds  sing, 
And  the  cool  water  fall  with  a  plunge  in  the  spring ; 
She  went  with*  a  smile,  to  the  old  cherry  tree, 
And  said  :  "  It  is  Alfred  a-thinking  of  me  ; 
For  when  I  stood  here  in  the  moonlight  with  him 
His  dark  poet  eyes  grew  all  shadowed  and  dim, 
And  his  voice  was  the  sweetest  I  ever  had  heard ; 
Each  pulse  in  my  bosom  its  soft  echoes  stirred. 
He  said  that  he  loved  me  and  asked  me  to  be 
His  bride,  when  the  autumn  mists  shine  o'er  the  lea." 
Yes,  Isabel  Lee,  the  sweet  pride  of  the  glen, 
The  poet  was  nursing  thy  memory  then  ; 
He  was  saying,  "  The  dream  is  too  sweet,  it  will  be 
Like  the  rose  and  the  rainbow,  my  Isabel  Lee." 

Thy  cheek  hath  grown  pale,  pretty  Isabel  Lee, 
But  a  lover  unthought  of  was  thinking  of  thee ; 
His  step  was  unheard  on  the  emerald  moor, 
His  form  was  unseen,  as  he  stood  by  the  door ; 
His  kiss  was  unfelt  as  it  lay  on  thy  cheek ; 
His  troth-plight  unspoken  as  Earth's  lovers  speak. 


CHANSON.  IO9 

The  flowers  for  thy  bridal  are  bright  on  the  tree, 

The  fair,  snowy  robe  will  be  ready  for  thee ; 

But  Harold,  nor  Robert,  beside  thee  shall  stand; 

Nor  Alfred,  loved  Alfred,  receive  thy  fair  hand. 
O  Isabel  Lee  !  the  sweet  pride  of  the  glen, 
Thy  bridegroom  was  nursing  thy  memory  then. 


Chanson. 

MRS.    IDA   MAY  DAVIS. 

IF  I  were  Robin  Redbreast, 
And  you  were  Jenny  Wren, 
No  morrow  e'er  before  us, 
The  golden  sunlight  o'er  us, 
Against  my  heart  your  head  pressed 

What  songs  we'd  carol  then  ! 
If  I  were  Robin  Redbreast, 
And  you  were  Jenny  Wren. 

If  you  were  nectar's  sweetness, 

And  I,  the  cup  of  gold, 
We'd  quaff  in  rainbow  showers 
The  perfume  of  May  flowers, 
And  drink  to  joy's  completeness, 

And  dare  love  to  grow  old  — 
If  you  were  nectar's  sweetness, 

And  I,  the  cup  of  gold. 

If  I  were  mignonette,  love, 
And  you  the  dew's  soft  kiss, 


110  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Then  youth  would  be  unending, 
Then  smiles  and  tears  be  blending 
Upon  our  cheeks  all  wet,  love. 

What  rapture  could  we  miss  ?  — 
If  I  were  mignonette,  love, 

And  you,  the  dew's  soft  kiss  ! 

If  you  were  rosy  morning, 
And  I  were  purple  night, 

I'd  flash  through  moonlight  gleaming, 

And  overtake  you  dreaming  ; 

Your  head  with  stars  adorning, 
I'd  stay  time  in  its  flight  — 

If  you  were  rosy  morning, 
And  I  were  purple  night. 


Hope  —  Memory. 

MRS.    IDA   MAY   DAVIS. 

DEAR  friends,  this  eve  may  be  the  last 
We  meet  together,  ere  the  ship 
That  sails  to-morrow  bears  away 

Each  from  the  other's  eye  and  lip ; 
Then  let  us  drink  this  health  in  laughter  — 
"  Hope  till  old  age,  and  Memory  after." 

The  rising  morning  may  be  gray ; 

The  voyage  lone  and  seas  be  wide ; 
And  clouds  come  down  to  close  the  day. 

That  darkles  o'er  the  trackless  tide ; 


MY   MOTHER'S   EASY-CHAIR.  in 

Still,  let  us  drink  this  health  in  laughter  — 
"  Hope  till  old  age,  and  Memory  after." 

And  if,  O  friends,  whom  now  I  see, 
We  join  near  sunset  on  the  strand, 

As  your  boat  silent  passes  me, 

I'll  reach  across  and  touch  your  hand  ; 

And  we  will  pledge  this  health  in  laughter  — 

"  Hope  till  old  age,  and  Memory  after." 


My   Mother's  Easy- Chair. 

SIDNEY   DYER. 

THE  days  of  my  youth  have  all  silently  sped, 
'  And  my  locks  are  now  grown  thin  and  gray ; 
My  hopes,  like  a  dream  in  the  morning,  have  fled, 

And  nothing  remains  but  decay ; 
Yet  I  seem  but  a  child,  as  I  was  long  ago, 

When  I  stood  by  the  form  of  my  sire, 
And  my  dear  mother  sung,  as  she  rocked  to  and  fro 
In  the  old  easy-chair  by  the  fire. 

Oh !  she  was  my  guardian  and  guide  all  the  day, 

And  the  angel  that  watched  'round  my  bed ; 
Her  voice  in  a  murmur  of  prayer  died  away 

For  blessings  to  rest  on  my  head. 
Then  I  thought  ne'er  an  angel  that  heaven  could  know, 

Though  trained  in.  its  own  peerless  choir, 
Could  sing  like  my  mother,  who  rocked  to  and  fro 

In  the  old  easy-chair  by  the  fire. 


112  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

How  holy  the  place  as  we  gathered  at  night, 

'Round  the  altar  where  peace  ever  dwelt, 
To  join  in  an  anthem  of  praise,  and  unite 

In  thanks  which  our  ev'ry  heart  felt. 
In  his  sacred,  old  seat,  with  his  locks  white  as  snow 

Sat  the  venerable  form  of  my  sire, 
While  mother  sang  low,  as  she  rocked  to  and  fro 

In  the  old  easy-chair  by  the  fire. 

The  cottage  is  gone  which  my  infancy  knew, 

And  the  place  is  despoiled  of  its  charms ; 
My  friends  are  all  gathered  beneath  the  sad  yew, 

And  slumber  in  death's  icy  arms ; 
But  often  with  rapture  my  bosom  doth  glow, 

As  I  think  of  my  home  and  my  sire, 
And  the  dearest  of  mothers,  who  sang  long  ago 

In  the  old  easy-chair  by  the  fire. 


Things  yet  to  Be. 

ALFRED   ELLISON. 

SOME  say  this  world  is  an  old,  old  world ; 
But  it's  always  been  new  to  me, 
With  its  boundless  range,  and  its  ceaseless  change, 

And  its  hope  for  the  things  to  be. 
A  new  friend  takes  my  hand 

When  the  old  ones  pass  away ; 
The  old  days  die,  but  the  light  in  the  sky 
Is  the  dawn  of  another  day. 


THINGS   YET  TO   BE.  113 

Some  say  this  world  is  a  cold,  cold  world ; 

But  it's  always  been  bright  to  me, 
With  its  hearthstone  fires,  and  its  warm  desires 

For  the  things  that  are  yet  to  be. 
And  if  I  must  labor,  I  wait, 

And  trust  to  the  fields  I  have  sown  ; 
For  I  know  there  is  truth  in  the  promise  of  youth, — 

I  shall  sometime  come  to  my  own. 

Some  say  this  world  is  a  sad,  sad  world  ; 

But  it's  always  been  glad  to  me, 
For  the  brook  never  laughs  like  my  soul,  when  it  quaffs 

And  feasts  on  the  things  to  be. 
The  night  comes  on  with  its  rest, 

The  morning  comes  on  with  its  song, 
The  hours  of  grief  are  few  and  brief, 

But  joy  is  a  whole  life  long. 

Some  say  this  world  is  a  bad,  bad  world  ; 

But  it's  always  been  good  to  me, 
With  its  errors,  there  live  dear  hearts  that  forgive 

And  trust  to  the  things  to  be. 
This  world  is  not  old  nor  cold, 

This  world  is  not  sad  nor  bad, 
If  you  look  to  the  right,  forgetting  the  night, 

And  say  to  your  soul,  "  Be  glad." 


114  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

To-morrow. 

S.    W.    GILLILAN. 

MY  life  has  reached  the  twilight  hour; 
'Mid  the  sunset  shadows  deep, 
The  tender  love  of  my  Father's  voice 
Is  lulling  my  soul  to  sleep ; 
My  empty  arms  are  hungering 
For  the  forms  once  cherished  there, 
But  the  Father  hath  taken  them  all  away ; 
They  needed  a  kindlier  care. 

One  night  when  my  life  was  young  and  strong, 

I  was  crooning  a  lullaby 

To  my  sweet  wee  tot,  three  summers  old, 

When  the  baby  began  to  cry 

For  the  dollies  her  mamma's  hands  had  made ; 

And  I  soothed  her  childish  sorrow 

With  the  words  :  "  Your  babies  are  put  away  ; 

You  may  have  them  again,  to-morrow." 

And  now,  as  I  travel  the  sunset  way, 

'Mid  the  twilight  gloom  so  deep, 

While  my  empty  arms  are  hungering       , 

For  the  forms  once  hushed  in  sleep, 

The  Father  in  love  bends  over  me, 

And  there's  hope  instead  of  sorrow, 

As  He  says  :  "  Your  babies  are  safe  with  Me ; 

You  may  have  them  again,  to-morrow." 


TO   VIOLA   IN   HEAVEN.  115 

To   Viola  in   Heaven, 

JONATHAN   W.    GORDON. 

I  AM  alone : 
To  me  the  world  hath  lost  its  brow  of  gladness, 
And  dewy  dawn, 
And  day  and  night  have  robed  themselves  in  sadness, 
And  life  hath  naught  for  me  but  agony  and  madness  — 
Since  thou  art  gone. 

Thy  soul  hath  fled 
To  its  bright  sphere  beyond  death's  river ; 

Whilst  I  am  led, 
In  gloom  and  grief,  along  its  shores  forever ; 
And  call  thy  name,  but  hear  thy  gentle  voice  —  O  never! 

Since  thou  art  dead. 

Life's  dream  is  o'er, 
Its  spell  upon  the  heart's  deep  fountain  broken 

Forevermore : 
But  in  each  word  thy  lute-like  voice  hath  spoken, 
Thou  still  hast  left  me  many  a  treasured  token 

In  mem'ry's  store. 

All  warm  and  bright 
Thy  soul  on  mine  in  each  seems  fondly  glowing 

In  love's  own  light, 
And  on  the  dim,  drear  gloom  of  grief  bestowing 
A  constant  beam,  pure  as  the  stainless  starlight,  flowing 

From  heaven  to-night. 


Il6  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

O  !  while  the  light 
Of  thy  last  smile  upon  my  soul  cloth  quiver, 

As  pure  and  bright 
As  day's  last  smile  upon  the  blushing  river, 
Friend  of  my  soul,  I  know  thou  art  not  gone  forever,  — 

'T  is  only  night. 

The  morn  will  rise  ; 
And  for  this  night  an  endless  day  be  given, 

When  thy  dear  eyes, 
Whose  sad  eclipse  sheds  darkness  o'er  life's  even, 
Will  shine  for  me,  in  some  bright,  love-lit  isle  of  heaven 

Beyond  the  skies. 


Jimmy's  Wooing. 

WILLIAM   WALLACE   HARNEY. 

THE  wind  came  blowing  out  of  the  West, 
And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
The  wind  came  blowing  out  of  the  West : 
It  stirred  the  green  leaves  out  of  their  rest, 
And  rocked  the  bluebird  up  in  his  nest, 
As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

The  swallows  skimmed  along  the  ground, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay  ; 
The  swallows  skimmed  along  the  ground, 
And  rustling  leaves  made  a  pleasant  sound, 
Like  children  babbling  all  around  — 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 


JIMMY'S   WOOING.  117 

Milly  came  with  her  bucket  by, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay  ; 
Milly  came  with  her  bucket  by, 
With  wee,  light  foot,  so  trim  and  sly, 
And  sunburnt  cheek  and  laughing  eye  — 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

A  rustic  Ruth,  in  linsey  gown  — 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay  ; 
A  rustic  Ruth,  in  linsey  gown, 
He  watched  her  soft  cheeks'  changing  brown, 
And  the  long  dark  lash  that  trembled  down, 

Whenever  he  looked  that  way. 

Oh  !  Milly's  heart  was  good  as  gold, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
Oh  !   Milly's  heart  was  good  as  gold  ; 
But  Jimmy  thought  her  shy  and  cold, 
And  more  he  thought  than  e'er  he  told, 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

The  rain  came  pattering  down  amain, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
The  rain  came  pattering  down  amain, 
And  under  the  thatch  of  the  laden  wain, 
Jimmy  and  Milly,  a  cunning  twain, 

Sat  sheltered  by  the  hay. 

The  merry  raindrops  hurried  in 
Under  the  thatch  of  hay  ; 


Il8  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  merry  raindrops  hurried  in, 
And  laughed  and  prattled  in  a  din, 
Over  that  which  they  saw  within, 
Under  the  thatch  of  hay. 

For  Milly  nestled  to  Jimmy's  breast, 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay ; 
For  Milly  nestled  to  Jimmy's  breast, 
Like  a  wild  bird  fluttering  to  its  nest ; 
And  then  I'll  swear  she  looked  her  best 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay. 

And  when  the  sun  came  laughing  out, 

Over  the  ruined  hay  — 
And  when  the  sun  came  laughing  out, 
Milly  had  ceased  to  pet  and  pout, 
And  twittering  birds  began  to  shout, 

As  if  for  a  wedding  day. 


Leander  to   Hero. 

BENJAMIN   DAVENPORT   HOUSE. 

OHERO  mine,  hold  out  your  arms  to  me ! 
But  let  your  white  hand  gleam  from  out  the  tower, 
And   though  black  clouds  o'er   all   the    sky  should 
lower, 
And  wildly  foam  the  rudely  wind-lashed  sea, 
And  Hellespont  were  hell,  I  would  cross  o'er  to  thee ! 


LEANDER  TO   HERO.  1 19 

I  see  thee  through  the  dark  of  every  night, 
Across  all  space  that  separates  us  twain, 
And  at  the  leash  of  fate  I  strongly  strain 
To  win  my  way  into  the  golden  light 
Of  loving  eyes,  than  any  signal  lamp  more  bright. 

Ah  !  whiter  than  the  winter-mocking  shower 

Of  foam  from  storm-scourged  waves,  I  see  the  gleam 
Of  thy  white  robes  across  the  night-dark  stream 
Of  fate,  that  bars  me  with  its  hateful  power, 
From  where  thy  signal  gleams  from  out  our  dear  watch- 
tower. 

And  all  uncinctured  they  about  thee  fall 

Like  nuptial  night-robes  donned  by  some  fair  bride, 
Beneath  whose  folds  a  wildly  pulsing  tide 
Of  love  tells  how  she  gladly  gives  her  all 
Of  life  and  self  to  him  who  holds  her  heart  in  thrall. 

Oh  !  rosier  than  the  gleam  of  love-lit  lamp, 
And  snowier  than  thy  garments'  purest  white, 
Thy  beauty  is  to  my  enraptured  sight ; 
And  though  between  us  loud  the  waves  may  ramp, 
I  win  my  way  toward  thee,  through  the  dark  and  damp. 

In  love's  sun-smitten  Archipelago 

Our  verdure-shaded  tower  stands  islanded  ; 
And  though  through  rudest  waves  my  way  is  led, 
Despite  all  lashing  winds  that  rise  and  blow, 
My  weary  limbs  the  stairway's  landing  yet  shall  know. 


120  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Viverols. 

DAVID   STARR   JORDAN. 

BEYOND  the  sea,  I  know  not  where, 
There  is  a  town  called  Viverols  ; 
I  know  not  if  't  is  near  or  far, 
I  know  not  what  its  features  are, 
I  only  know  't  is  Viverols. 

I  know  not  if  its  ancient  walls 
By  vine  and  moss  be  overgrown ; 

I  know  not  if  the  night-owl  calls 
From  feudal  battlements  of  stone, 
Inhabited  by  him  alone. 

I  know  not  if  'mid  meadow  lands 
Knee-deep  in  corn  stands  Viverols  ; 

I  know  not  if  prosperity 

Has  robbed  its  life  of  poesy ; 
That  could  not  be  in  Viverols, 
They  would  not  call  it  Viverols. 

Perchance  upon  its  terraced  heights 

The  grapes  grow  purple  in  the  sun ; 
Or  down  its  wild  untrodden  crags, 
Its  broken  cliffs  and  frost-bit  jags, 
The  mountain  brooks  unfettered  run. 

I  cannot  fancy  Viverols 

A  place  of  gaudy  pomp  and  show, 
A  "  Grand  Etablissement  des  Eaux," 


VIVEROLS.  121 

Where  to  restore  their  withered  lives 
The  roues  of  the  city  go. 

Nor  yet  a  place  where  Poverty 

No  ray  of  happiness  lets  in ; 
Where  wanders  hopeless  beggary 

'Mid  scenes  of  sorrow,  want,  and  sin, 
That  could  not  be  in  Viverols  ; 
There's  life  and  cheer  in  Viverols ! 

Perchance  among  the  clouds  it  lies, 

'Mid  vapors  out  from  Dreamland  blown  ; 

Built  up  from  vague  remembrances, 
That  never  yet  had  form  in  stone, 
Its  castles  built  of  cloud  alone. 

I  only  know  should  thou  and  I 

Through  its  old  walls  of  crumbling  stone 

Together  wander  all  alone, 
No  spot  on  earth  could  be  more  fair 

Than  ivy-covered  Viverols ! 
No  grass  be  greener  anywhere, 
No  bluer  sky  nor  softer  air 

Than  we  should  find  in  Viverols. 

Love,  we  may  wander  far  or  near, 

The  sun  shines  bright  o'er  Viverols, 
Green  is  the  grass,  the  skies  are  clear, 
No  clouds  obscure  our  pathway,  dear ; 
Where  love  is,  there  is  Viverols,  — 
There  is  no  other  Viverols. 


122  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Rosemary. 

"  That's  for  remembrance."  —Shakespeare. 
MRS.    D.    M.   JORDAN. 

ONLY  a  little  green  and  bitter  spray 
Of  fading  leaves  I  give  into  thy  keeping  — 
A  bunch  of  rosemary,  chilled  by  the  frost, 

And  withered  by  the  tears  my  eyes  are  weeping. 
"  That's  for  remembrance;  "  love,  O,  pray  remember 

Our  springtime  wanderings  and  our  summer  days, 
When  you  were  all  my  world,  and  I  was  happy 
In  winning  from  the  world  my  meed  of  praise. 

There's  not  a  path  which  we  have  walked  together, 

But  seems  a  hallowed  way  f  orevermore ; 
There's  not  a  page  whereon  thine  eyes  have  rested, 

But  I  have  learned  its  lessons  o'er  and  o'er ; 
There's  not  an  hour,  however  dark  and  dreary, 

But  hope  revives  with  memories  of  thee. 
Then  take  this  rosemary,  't  is  for  remembrance, 

And  O,  I  pray  you,  love,  remember  me ! 

I  left  the  heart's-ease  and  the  purple  pansy 

To  fade  and  wither  under  wintry  skies ; 
I  could  not  wear  the  one,  nor  bear  the  other, 

So  much  of  thought  was  in  their  honest  eyes; 
But  from  my  garden  bed  this  little  spray 

I  rescue  from  the  pitiless  November, 
And  bid  you  wear  it  for  the  thought  it  brings ;  — 

Wear  it  for  me,  and  O,  I  pray,  remember  ! 


LOVE'S   COMING.  1 23 


Love's   Coming. 

RICHARD   K.    LYON. 

LOVE  came  to  me  in  life  so  late 
That  Time  had  closed  the  outer  gate  — 
So  late  it  seemed  the  door  was  barred, 
Bolts  shot,  and  all  the  house  rough-scarred 
That  owned  my  habitation  gave  no  sign 
Of  welcome  to  the  god  benign. 
For  Love  with  all  his  power  divine 
Had  come  so  late. 

It  seemed  that  none  would  ever  come 
In  answer  to  his  knock,  though  some 
Sweet  thought  stirred  restless  in  my  breast, 
Uneasy  waked  from  its  long  rest ; 
So  strange  were  such  fair  visitors  that  when 
Love  came  and  called,  and  called  again, 
It  was  at  first  in  vain,  for  then 
It  seemed  so  late. 

No  chamber  had  my  soul  prepared 
Against  his  coming,  none  had  dared 
Foretell  his  advent ;  it  did  seem 
More  of  a  sweet,  unstable  dream  — 
Before  his  summons,  sweet  and  clear,  rang  out. 
Waking  the  drowsy-lidded  rout 
Of  fancies,  passion  sweet,  his  shout 
Seemed  all  too  late. 


124  TOETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

No  rich  feast  had  been  spread  for  him ; 
All  the  guest-chamber  lights  burned  dim  ; 
For  few  had  come  that  way  to  claim 
A  resting-place  —  e'en  fickle  Fame 
Had  fled  long,  long  before  Love  came  — 
And  yet  the  close  gates  opened  wide 
At  his  approach  ;  bolts  shot  aside ; 
All  the  bright  soul-lights  flamed,  and  loud 
Rang  out  the  welcome  of  the  crowd. 
My  soul's  best  minstrelsy  did  welcome  him 
Bright  grew  my  dimmest,  darkest  dream, 
For  after  all  it  did  not  seem 

Love  came  too  late. 


A  Fancy. 

ALBERT   VV.    MACY. 

O   FRAGRANT  roses  blooming  at  my  door, 
Your  loveliness  will  vanish  all  too  soon ; 
And  from  your  chalice  we  shall  drink  no  more 
Sweet  essence  of  the  dainty  wine  of  June. 

O  happy  childhood  playing  at  my  feet, 
Too  soon  on  joyous  wings  you'll  fly  away; 

No  more  we'll  hear  your  rippling  laughter  sweet, 
You  seem  to  linger  with  us  but  a  day. 

Perhaps  beyond  life's  narrow,  restless  sea 
The  roses  bloom  again  'neath  sunny  skies ; 

And  blissful  childhood  gathers  them  in  glee, 
To  deck  the  shining  walls  of  Paradise. 


THE   ONE  THAT   DIED.  1 25 

The  One   that   Died. 

HETTIE   ATHON   MORRISON. 

I  PASSED  a  group  of  children  at  their  play, 
Strong-limbed,  strong-veined  —  they  laughed,  and 
leaped,  and  ran, 
As  only  happy,  sturdy  children  can  — 
The  fairest  sight  of  that  fair  summer  day. 

And,  as  to  watch  their  merry  gambols  o'er  — 
Her  work  down-dropped,  forgotten  at  her  side, 
With  eyes  a-light  with  tenderest  mother's  pride  — 

The  mother  leaned  from  out  the  cottage  door. 

So  fair  the  sight  it  moved  my  stranger  tongue 
To  cry,  "  Oh,  mother  of  those  sturdy  boys 
And  rosebud  girls,  than  thine  no  sweeter  joys 

Hath  poet  heart  conceived  or  poet  lips  e'er  sung  !  ' 

"Ah,  yes,"  the  mother  said,  and  then  she  sighed, 
"  Yes,  they  are  fair,  those  boys  and  girls  of  mine, 
And  I  — no  prouder  mother  could  you  find  "  — 

Again  she  sighed  —  "  Ah,  but  the  one  that  died  !  " 

It  is  a  common  grief.     Who  hath  not  wept 

The  while  one  fair  hope  to  his  heart  was  pressed, 
Or  one  sweet  love  his  willing  lips  caressed, 

O'er  graves  where  hopes  and  loves  far  dearer  slept  ? 


126  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Oh,  cold,  green  earth  !     Oh,  far-off,  starry  skies ! 
Alike  each  hides  from  us  some  priceless  dust, 
Some  shattered  treasure  of  our  heart's  fond  trust, 

The  while  we  watch  with  tearful,  longing  eyes. 


Sad  heart,  be  comforted.     The  Crucified 

This  truth  triumphant  taught :  "  Love  cannot  die, 
Though  on  his  pale,  cold  brow  the  death  drops  lie ; 

For  Death  is  but  Life  glorified  !  " 


Do  I  love  Him  ? 

MRS.    MARY   E.    NEALY. 

DO  I  love  him  ?     Why  should  brightness  like  a  tide 
of  glory  beam 
O'er  what  once  was  dull  and  irksome,  —  darkened  glen 

and  shaded  stream  ? 
Why,  like  some  gay  lark  upspringing,  does  my  spirit 

greet  the  sun  ? 
While  my  heart  keeps  singing,  singing  till  the  Eden  day 
is  done  — 

Is  this  because  I  love  him  ? 

Do   I   love   him  ?     One  soft  evening  when   the   moon 

among  the  flowers 
Shed  her  wreath  of  light  and  shadow,  ebon  clouds  and 

silver  showers, 


THE   LITTLE   SHOE.  1 27 

We  were  walking  —  both  were   silent  —  when   a   pure 

white  rose  he  broke, 
Kissed  it  once,  then  gave  it  to  me;    trembled   I,  but 

never  spoke ! 

Was  this  because  I  loved  him? 

He  is  gone;  yet  I  am  happy,  for  I  know  he'll  come 

again ; 
Like  a  bird  in  fragrant  bower  sing  I,  let  it  shine  or  rain. 
All  things  in  the  heaven  above  me,  everything  on  earth 

beneath, 
Seems  to  whisper  he  does  love  me,  words  to  me  he  did 

not  breathe; 

Oh,  it  must  be  that  I  love  him  ! 


The  Little  Shoe. 

MRS.    MARY   E.   NEALY. 

I  FOUND  it  here  —  a  worn-out  shoe, 
All  mildewed  with  time  and  wet  with  dew ; 
'T  is  a  little  thing ;  —  ye  who  pass  it  by 
With  never  a  thought,  or  word,  or  sigh ; 
Yet  it  stirs  in  my  spirit  a  hidden  well, 
And  in  eloquent  tones  of  the  past  doth  tell. 

It  tells  of  a  little  fairy  form 
That  bound  my  heart  with  a  magic  charm ; 
Of  bright  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
Of  a  smile  that  solaced  all  my  care  ; 


128  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Of  a  prattling  voice  so  sweet  and  clear, 
And  of  tiny  feet  that  were  ever  near. 

It  tells  of  hopes  that  with  her  had  birth, 
Deep  buried  now  in  the  silent  earth ; 
Of  a  glad  heart  pulsing  in  answering  tone 
To  my  joyous  heart,  now  sad  and  lone ; 
Like  the  bow  that  lingers  a  moment  here, 
Then  melteth  away  to  its  native  sphere. 

Like  rose  leaves  loosed  by  the  zephyr's  sigh,  - 
Like  the  zephyr  wafting  its  perfume  by ; 
Like  the  wave  that  kisses  some  grateful  spot, 
Then  passes  away,  but  is  not  forgot ; 
If  your  life  hopes  like  these  have  never  fled, 
Then  you  cannot  know  of  the  tears  I  shed. 

Ye  cannot  know  what  a  little  thing 
From  Memory's  silent  fount  can  bring 
The  voice  and  form  that  once  were  dear. 
Yet  there  are  hearts,  were  they  only  here. 
That  could  feel  with  me,  as  all  wet  with  dew, 
I  find,  this  morning,  —  one  little  shoe. 


The   Old   Bouquet. 

EDWIN    E.  PARKER. 

IN  my  hand  a  bouquet  withered, 
In  my  heart  the  odor  yet, 
Of  the  flowers  of  radiant  beauty, 
With  their  dewy  fragrance  wet. 


ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 


A   TOAST  TO   BROWN   EYES.  1 29 

Unto  dust  has  turned  the  petals, 

Into  mem'ry  turned  the  bloom, 
Balmed  it  with  eternal  beauty, 

Filled  it  with  Divine  perfume. 

Tho'  the  present  shrink  and  wither 

Like  this  musty  old  bouquet, 
Yet  the  past  is  mine  forever, 

Be  the  future  what  it  may. 


A  Toast  to  Brown  Eyes. 

GAVIN    PAYNE. 

WHERE  amber-darkened  billows  chase  across  the 
fields  of  rye, 
With  melody  and  laughter  —  even  now  and   then  a 

sigh  — 
They  hint  of  after  pleasures,  when  the  resurrected  grain 
Shall  glory  in  the  spirit  —  and  fill  up  the  glass  again  ! 
Oh,  luscious  dew  of  potent  charm  !  thy  color  is  thy 

crown  — 
But  it,  nor  thou,  canst  warm  my  heart,  like  Theckla's 

eyes  of  brown, 
For  Theckla's  eyes  of  haunting  depths,  so  pensive 

and  so  true, 
Were  borrowed  from  the  twilight  where  it  browns  the 

distant  view  — 
Enhallowed  by  the  vespers'  sweetly  reminiscent  mood, 
Illumined  with  the  shimmer  of  the  midnight's  starry 

brood  ! 


130  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

"  Come,   Go  a  Piece." 

ALONZO   RICE. 

"  And  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood."  —  BYRON. 

HOW  sweet  are  the  sounds  of  the  earliest  words 
We  whispered  in  days  long  since  gone  by, 
When  the  bells  of  cattle  and  songs  of  birds 
Were  ringing  still  'neath  the  sunset  sky  : 
When  we  grasped  the  hand  of  a  little  friend, 

And  gazed  away  down  the  shadowy  lane 
To  the  dark,  deep  woods  at  the  other  end, 
And  softly  whispered  the  old  refrain, 
"  Come,  go  a  piece." 

When  the  wind  came  over  the  meadow  wide 

With  its  burden  of  perfume  fine  and  sweet, 
With  a  childish  fear  one  stood  by  my  side, 

With  her  pink  sunbonnet  and  bare  brown  feet ; 
And  I  could  always  understand 

The  soft  persuasion  of  smile  and  tear, 
Before  she  said,  as  she  took  my  hand 

And  whispered,  close  to  my  listening  ear, 
"  Come,  go  a  piece." 

We  were  the  happiest  of  children  then  ; 

We  gathered  flowers  and  swung  on  the  gate, 
I  was  wild  and  free  for  a  lad  of  ten, 

The  rose  in  her  cheek  was  red  for  eight. 


"COME,  GO   A   PIECE."  131 

We  never  thought  through  the  passing  years 
How  shadows  lengthened  with  each  day's  sun  ; 

Her  pleasures  were  mingled  with  passing  tears, 
And  she  always  said,  when  the  day  was  done, 
"  Come,  go  a  piece." 

And  the  years  passed  on.     One  autumn  came 

With  a  twitter  of  birds  in  the  fading  skies ; 
On  the  altar  of  youth  love  lit  a  flame, 

And  I  read  the  secret  in  downcast  eyes. 
When  I  questioned  her  to  know  if  she 

Would  journey  along  where  my  pathway  led  ; 
She  looked  away  in  her  innocent  glee, 

And  these  were  the  only  words  she  said, 
"Come,  go  a  piece." 

We  soon  were  wed,  and  the  joy  bells  rang 

And  the  May-day  beauty  filled  the  air ; 
And  the  birds  in  their  green  cathedrals  sang, 

And  the  lanes  were  filled  with  a  perfume  rare  — 
That  time  seems  yet  as  a  holiday  — 

And  I  wrote  on  the  beech  tree's  mossy  rind, 
Like  any  youth  in  his  childish  play, 

The  words  that  were  ever  in  my  mind, 
"  Come,  go  a  piece." 

At  last,  like  all  of  the  golden  dreams 

That  have  cheered  my  way,  the  time  drew  near 

When  we  had  to  part  —  and  to  me  it  seems 
That  life  has  forever  lost  its  cheer. 


132  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

I  can  see  the  light  in  the  ashen  cloud, 
The  rose  in  the  garden  in  death's  eclipse, 

And  I  hear  again,  as  when  I  bowed 
My  head  for  the  message  of  dying  lips, 
"  Come,  go  a  piece." 

The  flowers  she  gave  me  are  withered  now, 

And  the  song  she  sang  has  slipped  my  mind  : 
A  mist  steals  over  my  eyes  somehow, 

When  I  look  for  the  tokens  I  cannot  find. 
And  it  seems  to  me  when  the  lights  are  low, 

And  the  moon  is  hid,  and  the  crickets  still, 
I  can  hear  the  voice  of  long  ago, 

Inviting  upward  from  earthly  ill, 
"  Come,  go  a  piece." 

From  "  In  Forest-Temples." 


The  Picture  that  hangs  on  the  Wall. 

PETER   FISHE   REED. 

OUR  Lily  was  fair  as  a  fairy, 
As  modest  and  meek  as  a  dove, 
As  placid  and  pure  as  a  peri, 

But  her  heart  it  was  fuller  of  love. 
Ah  !  merry  was  she  as  a  swallow, 

And  her  smile  it  was  sweeter  than  all 
The  smiles  that  the  painter  Apollo 
Ever  penciled  to  hang  on  the  wall. 


THE   PICTURE  THAT   HANGS   ON  THE   WALL.        1 33 

Then  we  trimmed  up  her  bonny  brown  tresses, 

While  her  dimples  sank  down  in  a  smile  ; 
Dressed  her  up  in  the  best  of  her  dresses, 

And  laughed  at  her  glee  all  the  while  ; 
And  we  called  her  our  sweet  little  swallow, 

The  bonniest  beauty  of  all, 
And  we  smiled  as  the  painter  Apollo 

Traced  her  picture  to  hang  on  the  wall. 

But  Lily  grew  pale,  just  to  teach  us 

That  Heaven  had  a  claim  on  its  own ; 
And  we  feared  that  the  duplicate  features 

Of  Lily  would  soon  be  alone. 
Then  her  eye  it  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 

And  her  voice  lost  the  thrill  in  its  call ; 
So  we  blessed,  then,  Apollo  the  painter, 

For  the  picture  that  hangs  on  the  wall. 

Now  Lily  lies  under  the  roses, 

That  wearily  wave  at  her  head  ; 
But  she  heeds  not  that  where  she  reposes 

Is  chilly,  for  Lily  is  dead  : 
And  this  picture  that  never  may  perish, 

Is  all  that  is  left  of  her  —  all ; 
And,  oh,  how  the  image  we  cherish 

Of  Lily  that  hangs  on  the  wall ! 


134  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Sabbath   Chimes. 


OLIVE   SANXAY. 


A  SUNDAY  !  once  it  meant  to  boyish  mind 
A  warm,  still  room,  save  for  the  singing  wind 
Thro'  empty  keyholes,  big  clock  ticking  slow, 
And  rustle  of  the  Sunday  page,  below 
And  over  which  the  white,  strong,  fragrant  smoke 
Of  father's  pipe  curled,  till  the  family  folk 
Across  the  misty  room  looked  strange  and  dim, 
Like  those  day-dreams  that  so  encompassed  him. 

A  little  later,  when  the  school  days  came, 
"A  Sunday"  meant  the  answering  of  a  name 
At  roll  call ;  and  the  haste  of  tardy  feet 
To  catch  the  passing  file,  or  beat  retreat 
Before  a  bolted  chapel  door :  it  meant 
The  old  dean's  lecture,  brief  and  eloquent, 
And  letters  home  to  mother,  which  set  free 
The  dreams  of  all  he  ought  and  longed  to  be. 

And  afterwards,  when  dreams  had  given  place 
To  action,  Sunday  meant  a  young  girl's  face 
Devout  above  her  book  at  morning  prayer, 
The  light  of  old  stained  windows  on  her  hair : 
It  meant  long  silences  of  afternoons 
On  Sundays  thro'  contented  Mays  and  Junes, 
And  sunlit  meadows,  and  the  starlit  skies, 
And  lovelight  in  a  woman's  answering  eyes. 


THINKING   OF   HER.  I  35 

A  Sunday !     Ah,  across  the  distant  years 

The  calm  day  stretches  out  till  it  appears 

That  life  was  all  a  Sunday :  and  the  sense 

That  that  benign  and  gentle  influence 

Of  home  and  mother  and  the  tender  wife 

Who  entered  into  rest,  so  chastened  life 

Naught  else  remains,  makes  loud  the  deep  chimes  toll : 

"  There  is  a  Sabbath  evening  of  the  soul !  " 


Thinking  of  Her. 

GEORGE   STOUT. 

THINKING  of  her  —  the  winding  years  retrace 
Their  gloomy  way  to  our  first  trysting  place; 

Again  the  bloom  is  on  the  apple  tree, 
And  drifting  perfume  scents  the  dear  retreat ; 

The  firefly  snuffs  his  lamps  regretfully, 
Till  twilight  drapes  the  ancient,  rustic  seat, 

The  cricket,  reassured,  his  tale  resumes,  — 
A  maudlin,  peevish  tale  of  olden  wrong,  — 

There  is  a  gleam  of  light  thro'  frowning  rooms 
And,  from  a  careless  window,  Lillian's  song. 

Thinking  of  her  —  the  glad  door  swings  aside, 
And  all  the  garden  walk  is  glorified  ; 

And  she  is  here  ;  her  whispered  words,  the  touch 
Of  her  soft  hand  in  mine ;  the  flashing  thrill 

From  heart  to  heart  that  loves  her  overmuch 
For  bashful  telling,  so  must  needs  be  still.  — 


136  POETS  AND   TOETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

And  as  we  dreaming  sit,  she  softly  sings 
Of  love  and  apple  blossoms ;  and  the  eyes 

Fill  with  unutterable  questionings, 
And  love  translates  our  sweet,  soul-said  replies. 


Thinking  of  her  —  my  little  son  and  I 

'Mid  tear-wet  musings,  sit  our  hearthstone  by, 

And  start  her  little  chair  to  rocking,  so 
It  seems,  for  just  a  sigh,  that  she  is  there, 

Smiling  in  sweet  contentment  in  the  glow  — 
Her  workbox,  ever  envied,  by  her  chair.  — 

And  sometimes  when  the  light  is  low,  we  play 
That  she  is  sleeping  for  a  little  while, 

And  try  to  romp,  the  dear  old  joyous  way, 
Then,  breathless,  wait  for  her  awakening  smile. 


Mother's  Love. 

W.    D.    WALLACE. 

AS  at  the  sunbeam's  kiss  the  flower 
In  blossoms  smiles,  so  doth  the  power 
Of  mother's  love  from  o'er  the  sea, 
In  kisses  sweet  sent  after  me, 
Sent  after  me 
Across  the  sea, 
Incite  my  soul  to  bloom  each  day 
And  make  me  sing  though  far  away. 


MOTHER'S   SPIRIT.  1 37 

Mother's  Spirit. 

ELIZABETH  CONWELL  WILLSON. 

THOU  Spirit,  dowered  with  immortal  birth, 
Blest  with  new  being,  out  of  Heaven's  complete- 
ness ; 
Thou  wast  my  childhood's  Guardian  Saint  on  earth, 
Nor  deemed  I  Heaven  could  give  thee  holier  sweet- 
ness ! 

How  often  in  the  twilight's  lonely  calms, 
I  dream  of  lying  in  these  hallowed  places ; 

Feeling  upon  my  heart  Death's  restful  palms, 
And  on  my  face  —  the  quiet  of  dead  faces  ! 

Of  lying  still  —  as  thou  !  .  .  .     Then,  in  my  dreams, 
I  feel  a  thrill  as  of  thy  spirit's  nearness, 

Awakening  my  soul.  .  .  .     And  then,  it  seems, 
Thy  saintly  eyes  look  down  with  perfect  clearness. 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


Morning. 

MRS.    MARIE   L.    ANDREWS. 

A  GLIMMER  of  light  in  the  east, 
A  twitter  of  birds  ; 
A  mist  in  the  air,  a  hush  in  the  sky, 

A  lowing  of  herds  ; 
A  sparkle  on  grass  and  flower, 
A  dripping  of  leaves  ; 

A  flurry  of  larks  in  the  air, 

The  grasshopper's  shrill ; 
The  prattle  of  children  awakened, 

The  creak  of  the  mill, — 
A  shepherd  lad  winding  his  horn,  — 

And  lo  !  it  is  morn  ! 

The  Prophet. 

MRS.   ALBION  F.   BACON. 

DARKNESS  and  silence,  such  as  only  fall 
At  midnight,  wrap  the  sleeping  hamlets  all. 
No  life  in  all  the  dim  world  seems  to  be. 

Then,  suddenly, 
Across  the  hills,  far-off  and  faint,  I  hear 
Sound  through  the  dark,  as  through  a  dream,  the  call 
(How  strange  it  seems)  of  some  bold  chanticleer. 

141 


142  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Half  in  my  sleep  I  hear  that  clarion  ring, 
With  distant  calls,  like  echoes  answering  ; 
And  as  at  war's  alarum  soldiers  leap 

From  guarded  sleep, 
And  seize  their  arms  and  hasten  from  their  tents, 
So  at  this  sound  my  drowsy  senses  spring 
Alert,  to  man  the  mind's  dark  battlements. 

To  tell  night's  mid-hour  tolls  no  startled  bell : 

Only  thy  voice  is  heard,  brave  sentinel, 

Who,  like  the  ancient  watchmen  on  the  towers, 

Calls  forth  the  hours, 
And  to  the  wistful  questioners,  who  see 
No  gleam  through  pain's  long  vigil,  dost  foretell 
"  The  morning  cometh,"  oft  and  cheerily. 

How  canst  thou  know  when,  weary  with  his  race, 
The  Day  turns  back,  his  pathway  to  retrace  ? 
Canst  thou  the  maiden  Dawn's  light  footsteps  hear 

Approaching  near  ? 
Or  dost  thou  stand  in  converse  with  the  skies, 
And  know  what  time  she  leaves  her  hiding-place 
By  joyful  flashings  of  their  starry  eyes? 

Thou  art  a  prophet,  like  to  those  of  old 
Who  in  the  darkness  sat,  but  firm  and  bold 
Looked  with  undaunted  eyes  towards  the  dim 

Horizon's  rim, 
And  thrilled  with  faith,  of  waiting  ages  born, 
That  soon  from  out  the  Night's  strong  prison-hold 
Should  burst  the  golden  glory  of  the  Morn. 


THE   SNOW-BIRDS. 


The    Snow-Birds. 

MRS.   R.    G.    BALL. 

WHERE,  little  cunning  ones,  have  you 
Through  all  the  summer  hid  ? 
Have  you  been  dallying  in  the  wood 
With  saucy  katydid  ? 

Wee  birds,  you  herald  not  with  song 

Your  coming,  but  we  see 
You,  in  your  somber  Quaker  coats, 

A-gathering  on  a  tree. 

Do  you  keep  tryst  with  snowflakes  ? 

Do  they  tarry  for  your  call, 
Ere  they  let  their  winter  blossoms 

O'er  our  shriveled  flowers  fall, 

As  may  some  loving  hand  cast,  o'er 
A  face  once  bright  with  bloom, 

The  dainty  veil  of  white  to  hide 
A  blight  that  fell  too  soon  ? 

O  !  let  them  gently  fall  and  hide 

Our  rose  that  faded  lies ; 
And  o'er  our  withered  tulips  cast 

White  blossoms  from  the  skies ; 


143 


144  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

And  trim  the  edges  of  the  brook, 

Hang  tassels  on  the  spray, 
Upon  each  naked  clover  head 

A  little  white  cap  lay. 

Leaves  that,  since  Autumn  sang  her  dirge, 
Have  dropped  their  golden  tinge, 

And,  shiv'ring,  for  the  winds  make  sport, 
Trim  with  their  downy  fringe. 

And  where  the  cruel  frost  has  left 
Black  footprints  in  the  night, 

My  bonny  birds,  call  snowfiakes  down 
To  cover  them  with  white. 

But  tell  us,  little  prophets  brown, 
Who  seem  so  wise  and  brave, 

Where  is  it  you  find  shelter  when 
The  storms  of  winter  rave  ? 

And  where  you  get  your  daily  food 
When  fields  grow  bleak  and  bare  ? 

Methinks  I  hear  the  answer  chirped,  — 
"  We're  in  our  Father's  care." 


Midsummer. 

MRS.    M.    E.    BANTA. 

OVER  the  stubble  fields 
Midsummer's  sun  falls  white.     The  sky  above 
Bends  pale  and  faint  in  the  oppressive  heat. 


MIDSUMMER. 


145 


Under  yon  clump  of  trees,  with  not  a  leaf  astir, 

The  herd  groups  listlessly.     No  restless  life 

In  all  the  indolent  scene,  save  by  the  shrunken  brook, 

Where  butterflies  in  golden  bevies  drink, 

Or  on  the  thistle  tops,  among  the  whitened  weeds 

Fringing  the  dusty  road,  the  humble-bee 

Drones  to  the  flashing  goldfinch,  swaying  light 

On  silken  seed  tuft.     Stirring  the  drowsy  heat, 

Pulses  the  August  fly,  its  quavering  tones 

Lifting  and  falling  in  a  dreamy  swirl. 

The  birds  are  gone  to  leafy,  dim  retreats, 

Where  sunshine  enters  but  in  shadowy  gleams, 

And  not  a  silver  note,  from  field  or  copse, 

Rouses  the  swooning  air.     The  cornfields  stand 

Within  the  quivering  heat,  lifting  their  shriveled  blades 

In  piteous  prayer  for  rain,  that  late 

Rustled  like  plumed  host  their  dark  green  ranks. 

All  living  nerves  are  captive  to  the  spell 

Narcotic,  of  pervading  heat  and  hush. 

Yet  vague  unrest,  some  undefined  impulse, 

Torments  the  indolence,  as  yonder  kine 

Impatient  whisk  the  flies. 

A  sun-tipped  cloud, 
Low  poised  and  billowy,  in  the  hazy  west 
Startles  the  still  heat  with  rolling  throbs  of  sound, 
While  golden  blushes  light  its  purple  foam. 
Lo,  all  the  slumbrous  tree  tops  move 
And  nod  together  in  the  sultry  breeze ! 
Gray  clouds  shade  swiftly  into  black, 
And  fold  on  fold  swell  upward  to  the  sun, 


I46  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Obscuring  soon  its  glare,  while  ominous  blue 
Floods  the  low  west.     And  now  abroad 
The  tender  gloom  of  near  approaching  rain 
Blends  with  a  solemn,  conscious  hush. 
The  freshening  wind's  storm-scented  breath 
Blows  balmy  from  the  pearl-fringed  clouds, 
Sweeping  to  earth  far  off,  whence  come 
Avant  couriers,  like  trampling  steeds, 
Dropping  great  crystals  to  the  advancing  roar 
And  whiteness  of  the  descending  rain. 


My  Native  Woods. 

MRS.    BESSIE   JOHNSON   BELLMAN. 

DEAR  native  woods,  your  well-loved  haunts 
Have  soothed  me  o'er  and  o'er,  and  quelled 
desire 
So  strong  and  hopeless  that  it  rent  like  pain. 
Your  benediction  entered  my  sad  soul 
When  first  I  heard  your  woodland  melodies, 
And  felt  the  solitude  that  flung  its  cloak 
Of  close  protection  round  me. 

Autumn  days 
Have  stolen  on  us  almost  unawares,  — 
So  fast  the  time  glides  by  us.     The  frost  king 
Has  made  sad  depredations,  and  the  leaves 
Are  deeply  scarred  with  blood  to  mark  the  spot 
Where  he  shall  strike  again.     And  soon 
Through  these  dear  woods,  where  now  the  air  — 


DUSK.  147 

Intoxant,  like  new  wine  —  floats  languidly, 
Shall  shriek  and  howl  the  imps  of  Boreas. 

But  spring  will  come  again !  and  losing  naught, 
But  rather  gaining  by  your  lesson  learned 
Of  calm  endurance,  shall  your  beauty  grow, 
Fed  by  the  gentle  influence  of  soft,  warm  showers 
And  golden  sunshine,  filtered  lovingly 
Through  your  dark  boughs,  and  dripping  down 
Upon  the  teeming  earth.     And,  lo  ! 
The  violet,  the  wind  flower,  and  the  fern, 
And  all  the  beauties  of  the  dawning  year 
Answer  their  sovereign's  call ! 


Dusk. 

MUS.    BESSIE  JOHNSON   BELLMAN. 

EVENING.     And  purple  shades  begin  to  veil 
Day's  farewell  banner,  wrought  in  cloth  of  gold. 
Slowly  the  modest  stars  their  work  unfold, 
Sewing  the  dusk  with  silver  moon-thread,  pale. 

All  the  long  day  the  gentle  souls  of  flowers 
Vanished  in  perfume,  blest  each  straying  air 
With  the  perfected  sweetness  angels  bear 

In  holy  cruse,  to  anoint  our  better  hours. 

Over  the  mighty  prairies,  rolling  free, 

Night  lays  her  hand  in  gentle  quieting. 

My  soul  bows  low  to  hear  the  silence  sing 
Its  solemn  vespers  to  the  world  and  me. 


148  POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 


The  Sweet  South  Wind. 

HORACE   P.    BIDDLE. 

WHENCE  comest  thou,  my  sweet  south  wind, 
Flying  away,  flying  away  ? 
Whence  comest  thou,  my  sweet  south  wind, 

Flying  away  ? 
I  come  from  the  mountain, 

And  over  the  lea ; 
I  ripple  the  fountain 
And  ruffle  the  tree ; 

Flying  away,  flying  away  ! 

What  bringest  thou,  my  sweet  south  wind, 

Flying  away,  flying  away  ? 
What  bringest  thou,  my  sweet  south  wind, 

Flying  away  ? 
The  voice  of  the  bowers, 

The  sweets  of  the  lea, 
The  breath  of  the  flowers, 

These  bring  I  to  thee ; 
Flying  away,  flying  away ! 

What  sayest  thou,  my  sweet  south  wind, 

Flying  away,  flying  away  ? 
What  sayest  thou,  my  sweet  south  wind, 

Flying  away  ? 
From  matin  till  vesper 

As  onward  I  rove, 


MONT  BLANC.  1 49 

Sweet,  sweet  is  my  whisper, 
My  song  is  of  love, 

Flying  away,  flying  away  ! 

Where  goest  thou,  my  sweet  south  wind, 

Flying  away,  flying  away  ? 
Where  goest  thou,  my  sweet  south  wind, 

Flying  away  ? 
To  the  mountains  I'm  flying, 

To  the  place  of  my  rest; 
There  weeping  and  sighing 

I'll  die  on  its  breast ; 

Flying  away,  flying  away! 

Mont  Blanc. 

MRS.   SARAH   T.    BOLTON. 

O   WORSHIPER  in  heaven's  far  courts  !     Sublime 
Gleams  thy  white  forehead,  bound  with  purple  air. 
Thou  art  coeval  with  old  gray-haired  Time, 
Yet  thy  colossal  features  are  as  fair 
As  when  the  Omniscient  set  his  signet  there. 
Wrapped  in  a  royal  robe,  that  human  art 
Could  never  weave,  nor  mortal  monarch  wear, 
Thou  sitt'st  enthroned  in  majesty  apart, 
Folding  eternal  rest  and  silence  in  thy  heart. 

When  the  Almighty  Mind  went  forth  and  wrought 

Upon  the  formless  waters ;  when  He  hung 

New  worlds  on  their  mysterious  paths,  and  brought 


150  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

Light  out  of  brooding  darkness  ;  when  the  young, 

Fair  earth,  at  His  command,  from  chaos  sprung 

To  join  the  universal  jubilee  ; 

When  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  His  triumphs  sung, 

God  left  His  footsteps  on  the  sounding  sea, 

And  wrote  His  glorious  name,  proud  monument,  on  thee. 

Tell  us,  Earth-born  Companion  of  the  stars, 
Hast  thou  beheld  when  worlds  were  wrecked  and  riven  ? 
Hast  seen  wild  comets  in  their  red  simars 
O'er  the  fair  fields  of  space  at  random  driven  ? 
Seest  thou  the  angels  at  the  gate  of  heaven  ? 
Perchance  they  lend  that  glory  to  thy  brow, 
Which  burns  and  sparkles  there  this  summer  even ; 
Perchance  their  anthems  float  around  thee  now,  — 
They  worship  God  always,  and  so,  Mont  Blanc,  dost  thou. 

Solemn  evangel  of  Almighty  power, 

The  pillars  of  the  earth  support  thy  throne ; 

Ages  unknown,  unnumbered,  are  thy  dower, 

Sunlight  thy  crown,  the  clouds  of  heaven  thy  zone. 

Spires,  columns,  turrets,  lofty  and  alone ; 

Snow-fields,  where  never  bird  nor  beast  abode ; 

Caverns  unmeasured,  fastnesses  unknown  ; 

Glaciers  where  human  feet  have  never  trod ; 

Ye  are  the  visible  throne,  the  dwelling-place  of  God. 

What  is  the  measure  of  our  threescore  years  ? 
What  the  duration  of  our  toil  and  care  ? 
What  are  our  aspirations,  hopes,  and  fears, 
The  joys  we  prize,  the  ills  we  needs  must  bear, 


MONT  BLANC.  151 

The  earthly  goals  we  win,  the  deeds  we  dare  ? 
Our  life  is  but  a  breath,  a  smile,  a  sigh ; 
We  go,  and  time  records  not  that  we  were ; 
But  thou  wilt  lift  thy  giant  brow  on  high 
Till  time's  last  hour  is  knelled,  lost  in  eternity. 

And  we,  beholding  thee,  do  turn  aside 

From  all  the  little  idols  we  have  wrought ; 

Self-love,  ambition,  wealth,  fame,  power,  and  pride 

Keep  silence  before  thee ;  and  we  are  taught 

A  nobler  aim,  a  more  enduring  thought. 

Our  souls  are  touched  by  the  celestial  fire 

That  glows  on  holier  altars ;  what  we  sought 

With  thought,  heart,  mind,  seems  dust,  and  we  aspire 

To  win  some  surer  good,  some  guerdon  holier,  higher. 

Thou  art  an  altar  where  the  human  soul 

Pays  God  the  tribute  of  its  prayer  and  praise ; 

Feelings,  emotions  passing  all  control, 

Are  born  of  thee  ;  wondering,  subdued  we  gaze, 

Till  soul  and  sense  are  lost  in  still  amaze, 

And  the  full-gushing  heart  forgets  to  beat. 

We  feel  the  invisible,  we  seem  to  raise 

The  inner  veil,  to  stand  where  two  worlds  meet, 

Entranced,  bewildered,  rapt,  adoring  at  thy  feet. 


152  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  Summer  Storm. 

MRS.    LOUISE   VICKROY   BOYD. 

WHEN  the  sky's  deep  blue  grew  deeper, 
And  the  sickle  of  the  reaper 
Swinging  'midst  the  ripened  wheat  ears  made  a  pleasant 
flash  and  sound, 
Rose  a  cloud  that  soon  o'ershaded 
All  the  scene,  while  quickly  faded 
From  the  landscape  all  the  beauty  by  the  sunshine  shed 
around. 

Queenly  rose  and  lily  saintly 
First  began  to  waver  faintly, 
And  the  trembling  oak  leaves  whispered  of  the  tempest 
drawing  near ; 
While  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  river 
Sent  through  every  heart  a  shiver, 
For  all  Nature  seemed  o'erburdened  with  a  wonder 
and  a  fear. 

Then  the  lightning's  vivid  flashes, 
With  the  thunder's  wilder  crashes, 
In  a  strange,  terrific  splendor  clothed  the  overarching 
sky  ; 
Shrank  the  woodbine  in  her  bower, 
And  the  fern  shrank  lower  and  lower, 
While  the  vine  leaves  clasped  each  other  with  a  cling- 
ing sympathy. 

Now  the  wild  winds,  hollow  howling, 
And  the  heavens  darker  scowling, 


THE   RAGGED    REGIMENT.  1 53 

For  a  while  seemed  all  too  dreadful  for  the  startled  ear 
to  bear; 
Then,  while  floods  of  rain  descended, 
Proudest  trees  were  torn  and  rended, 
Till  the  woods  bore  fearful  tokens  how  the  dread  one 
reveled  there. 

But  the  storm  clouds'  sudden  breaking, 
All  the  wild-bird  anthems  waking, 
Set  the  summer  air  to  trembling  with  a  sweetly  con- 
scious thrill ; 
While  the  snowy  mist  up-going, 
And  the  sunny  light  down-flowing, 
Met  and  made  a  rainbow  chaplet  for  the  dark  brow  of 
the  hill. 

And  the  sunset  on  that  even 
Seemed  the  golden  gate  of  heaven, 
All  so  cloudless  and  so  lovely,  when  the  storm  had 
passed  away ; 
So  the  tempests  in  our  bosoms, 
Beating  down  life's  fairest  blossoms, 
Sometimes  make  our  hearts  more  fitted  to  receive  a 
heavenly  ray. 

The   Ragged   Regiment. 

ALICE   WILLIAMS   BROTHERTON. 

{By  permission,  from  the  Century  Magazine.) 

I  LOVE  the  ragged  veterans  of  June  ; 
Not  your  trim  troop,  drill-marshaled  for  display 
In  gardens  fine, — but  such  as  dare  the  noon 
With  saucy  faces  by  the  public  way. 


154  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Moth  mullein,  with  its  moth-wing  petals  white, 
Round  dandelion,  and  flaunting  bouncing-bet, 

The  golden  butter-and-eggs,  and  ox-eye  bright, 
Wild  parsley  and  tall  milkweed  bee-beset. 

Ha,  sturdy  tramps  of  nature,  mustered  out 
From  garden  service,  scorned  and  set  apart ! 

There's  not  one  member  of  your  ragged  rout 
But  wakes  a  warmth  of  welcome  in  my  heart. 


Magnolia. 

JEROME   C    BURNETT. 

ONCE  a  spirit  of  the  northland, 
Weary  with  the  winter  day, 
With  the  silent,  frozen  mountains, 

Where  the  snow  ne'er  melts  away, 
Sought  the  land  of  bloom  and  sunshine, 
In  the  never-ending  May. 

Ere  she  reached  the  genial  climate 
In  the  bright  land  by  the  sea, 

Tired  she  sank  to  pleasant  slumber 
'Neath  the  shadow  of  a  tree, 

In  whose  branches  birds  alighted, 
Singing  sweetest  melody. 

Waking  when  her  rest  was  over, 
Startled  by  her  slumber  long, 


MARSH-MALLOW.  I  5  5 

Still  the  birds  were  singing  near  her, 
In  the  tree,  a  bright-winged  throng, 

Which  she  deftly  changed  to  flowers, 
And  to  fragrance  all  their  song  ! 

This  is  now  the  proud  magnolia, 

Loveliest  gift  the  seasons  bring, 
Clad  in  robes  of  white  the  purest,  — 

Every  flower  a  fettered  wing,  — 
Scattering  fragrance  like  rich  blessings, 

Sweet  as  songs  the  angels  sing. 


Marsh-mallow. 

JEROME   C    BURNETT. 

WHERE  the  river  spreads  over  the  lowlands, 
Encompassing  meadow  and  lea, 
And  the  pulse  of  the  far-distant  ocean 

Is  felt  in  the  arm  of  the  sea  ; 
Where  the  boatman  rows  over  the  rushes 

Abreast  of  the  incoming  tide, 
And  the  mosses  cling  to  the  oar  blade, 
The  marsh-mallow  blooms  in  pride. 

In  the  fullness  of  tinted  September, 
When  the  birds  have  forgotten  to  sing, 

The  flowers  still  come  in  their  beauty, 
And  as  sweetly  as  erst  in  the  spring ; 


156  POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Then  summer  hath  written  her  story, 
But  a  page  is  left  turned  to  the  light, 

Where  the  marsh-mallow  seems  like  a  postscript 
That  God  has  consented  to  write. 


The  Clouds. 

CLARENCE   A.    BUSKIRK. 

THE  clouds  are  wondrous  things   in    all  their 
ways,  — 
Whether  like  fleecy  flocks  they  calmly  graze 
Along  their  azure  fields,  or  proudly  sail 
Like  gallant  ships  before  some  upper  gale, 
Or  rise  in  mountain  chains  of  glittering  snow 
With  fathomless  abysses  cleft  below, 
Or  stand  like  splendid  domes  and  palaces 
Flushed  with  celestial  colors  numberless, 
Or  rove  with  precious  argosies  of  showers 
Consigned  to  ports  of  harvests,  fruits,  and  flowers, 
Or  battle  high  in  heaven  in  awful  wrath, 
While  Cossack  lightnings  hover  'round  their  path, 
Or  graceful  rainbows  magically  form 
To  smile  away  the  squadrons  of  the  storm, 
Or  stretch  in  wondrous  wreaths  and  diadems, 
With  stars  at  intervals  like  sparkling  gems, 
Wind-woven  into  light  and  argent  lace 
The  maiden  moon  on  summer  nights  to  grace. 

Ascend  some  hill  at  morn  and  view  the  mist 
Rise  from  the  valleys,  by  the  sunrise  kissed, 


THE   IRON-WEED.  157 

Its  broad  and  lake-like  fields  serenely  spread 
In  winding  gulfs  about  the  islanded 
Summits  of  hills  and  peaks  of  lesser  height, 
And  windless  seas  beneath  the  moon  at  night 
Lying  less  still  and  cold ;  and  watch  the  beams 
Flowing  across  the  mist  in  silver  streams, 
Till  the  mist  breaks  in  foam  against  the  hills 
And  glides  away,  revealing  shining  rills, 
And  waking  woods,  and  verdant,  flowery  vales, 
While  softly  breathe  the  fragrant  morning  gales. 


The  Iron-weed. 

KATE   M.    CAPLINGER. 

SOMBER  and  tall,  like  a  brave  plumed  knight, 
On  the  sunny  hillside  standing, 
Marshaled  in  line  for  a  stately  raid, 

On  the  upland  meadows  banding  ; 
And  by  the  brooks  in  shady  nooks 

At  the  warm  brown  water  glancing, 
A  straggling  line  waves  purple  plumes 

At  the  distant  host  advancing ; 
Ho,  Iron-weed  !     Ho,  Iron-weed  ! 

Keep  your  place  in  the  van  and  make  good  speed. 

Gracious  and  strong,  like  the  knights  of  old, 

The  hands  of  the  weak  upholding, 
You  shield  the  grasses  at  your  feet 

With  the  strength  of  your  close  enfolding ; 


158  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  with  allies  of  friendly  bloom, 

On  the  barren  hillside  grouping, 
You  draw  your  lines  to  hide  the  waste, 

To  the  distance  on  still  trooping ; 
Ho,  Iron-weed  !     Ho,  Iron-weed  ! 

Keep  your  place  in  the  van  and  make  good  speed. 

Brown  with  the  conflict  of  wind  and  sun, 

Still  your  tarnished  plumes  are  lifted 
All  up  and  down  on  the  autumn  ways, 

Whence  the  summer  glow  has  drifted  ; 
And  by  the  edge  of  the  brown  beech  woods, 

Wherever  the  line  needs  guarding, 
With  purpose  true,  endurance  brave, 

Your  advance  knows  no  retarding  ; 
Ho,  Iron-weed  !     Ho,  Iron-weed ! 

Who  keeps  in  the  van  must  make  good  speed. 


The  Sweet  o'   the  Year. 

EMMA   N.   CARLETON. 

COME  thou  slowly,  slowly,  Spring, — 
Trail  thy  green  robe  down  the  hills ; 
Still  thy  tones,  and  softly  sing 
Dreams  of  music  to  the  rills. 

Come  thou  slowly,  slowly,  Spring,  — 
Sift  thy  sunshine  o'er  the  land  ; 

Not  too  riotously  fling 

All  dear  gifts  at  thy  command. 


THE   WOOD   THRUSH.  159 

Come  thou  slowly,  slowly,  Spring,  — 
Stint  thy  bird-song,  stay  thy  flower; 

Ah,  be  wise  and  gracious ;  bring 
Lingering  bliss  to  each  brief  hour. 


The   Wood   Thrush. 

HANNAH   E.    DAVIS. 

FROM  out  of  the  forest  depths, 
Clear,  sweet,  and  strong, 
Floats  on  the  evening  wind, 
Shy  bird,  thy  flute-like  song. 

What  is  it  thou  wouldst  tell  ? 

No  secret  woe  nor  wrong 
Tinges,  with  its  sad  chords,  the  silvery  swell 

And  liquid  rush  of  thy  melodious  song. 

Nor  is  it  rapturous  joy, 

A  meaningless  delirium  of  sound ; 
The  riotous  license  of  a  spirit  fair, 

Knowing  no  check  nor  bound. 

In  my  lone  forest  walk, 

Hidden  away  from  sight  and  sound  of  men, 
I've  heard  the  tinkling  of  a  waterfall 

That  leaped  and  sang,  then  lost  itself  again. 


l6o  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

To  the  same  key  your  voices  wild  attune, 

Pure,  unimpassioned,  free ; 
No  faint  refrain  of  sorrow,  hope,  desire; 

Simply  the  dryad's  joy  —  to  be. 

No  human  heart  is  yours ; 

The  passions  wild  that  o'er  it  steal  — 
Eternal  longings,  sorrow,  and  remorse  — 

Ye  neither  know  nor  feel. 


Nor  are  its  joys  your  joys, 

Infinite  answerings  to  the  soul's  desires ; 
Yet  not  unequal  are  ye,  after  all  — 

Each  has  the  fullness  that  its  need  requires. 

Sing  on,  shy  bird  and  tinkling  waterfall ! 

From  bounteous  Nature's  heart 
Hymnals  of  praise  perpetually  arise, 

And  in  them  you  have  part. 


When  the  Leaves  come  sailing  Down. 

WILLIAM    T.    DENNIS. 

LET  others  sing  of  the  glories  of  spring 
And  the  forest's  emerald  crown  ; 
But  give  me  the  rays  of  the  autumn  days, 
When  the  leaves  come  sailing  down. 


WHEN  THE   LEAVES   COME   SAILING   DOWN.         l6l 

The  shadows  quiver  upon  the  river, 

And  gold  is  the  golden-rod's  crown ; 
The  woodpecker  soundeth  reveille  when 

The  leaves  come  a-sailing  down. 

The  chattering  jay  hath  a  plumage  gay, 

And  the  quail  has  a  raiment  brown  ; 
The  fish  in  the  stream  leaps  up  with  a  gleam 

As  the  leaves  come  sailing  down. 

Now  fruit,  herd,  and  grain  and  the  laden  wain, 

From  the  valleys  and  meadows  brown, 
Are  with  me  to-day  in  the  golden  ray 

While  the  leaves  come  sailing  down. 

Though  the  frosts  may  come  and  the  streams  be  dumb 

And  the  winter  put  on  its  frown, 
Yet  vocal  with  praise  are  these  halcyon  days 

When  the  leaves  come  sailing  down. 

The  promise  made,  when  the  winter  was  staid, 

By  Queen  Spring  of  the  floral  gown, 
Now  ripens  and  clings  where  the  red  apple  swings 

And  the  brown  nuts  patter  down. 


The  goddess  of  Spring,  with  the  budding  wing 
And  the  fragrantly  blooming  crown, 

Ne'er  feasted  her  eyes  on  the  Tyrian  dyes 
Of  the  leaves  a-sailing  down. 


1 62  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

O,  glad  is  the  May  in  her  rapturous  sway, 

June  regal  in  country  and  town ! 
But  the  accolade  of  the  nut-brown  maid 

Be  mine  when  the  leaves  come  down ! 

The  West. 

MRS.    AMANDA   L.    R.    DUFOUR. 

TO  what  great  zenith  will  the  growing  splendor 
Of  the  vast,  vigorous  West  at  length  attain  ? 
With  one  foot  planted  on  the  Alleghanies, 
One  firmly  fixed  on  old  Pacific's  mane ; 
With  vast  resources  and  unnumbered  treasures, 

Wide-sweeping  rivers,  mountains  grand  and  bold, 
Far-reaching  prairies,  glorious  in  dimensions, 
Primeval  forests,  fraught  with  wealth  untold ; 

Bright,  crystal  lakes  with  outlets  ever  singing ; 

Huge  rocks  like  Titan  fortresses,  that  rise 
In  chains  aloft,  with  silent,  solemn  grandeur, 

Like  giant  stairways  to  the  upper  skies ; 
Canyons  with  walls  a  thousand  fathoms  steep, 

Whose  beds  are  paved,  like  Rome's  famed  "Appian 
Way," 
With  bowlders  wedged  compactly  ;  streams  that  wander 

Through  shadow  lands  where  gleams  no  light  of  day. 

Miles  of  great  caverns  filled  with  strange,  wild  beauty : 
Nature's  mysterious  coffers  dark  and  deep, 

Wherein  are  hidden  works  of  grotesque  splendor, 
Where  long-past  ages  silent  records  keep ; 


THE   WEST.  163 

Uncounted  mines  of  every  name  and  value  :  — 
But  few  as  yet  have  crowned  the  searcher  king ; 

They  wait  some  master-mind  adown  the  future, 
That  to  unlock  their  stores  the  keys  shall  bring. 

What  denizens  of  woodland,  mount,  or  water, 

For  man's  advantage  do  not  here  abound  ? 
From  light-winged  song-birds  to  the  cumbrous  bison, 

Game  of  all  merit  plentiful  is  found. 
And  splendid  coursers  that  may  vie  in  beauty 

With  Arab's  purest  blood,  bound  wild  and  free 
O'er  sweet  grass  plains,  well  watered,  rich  with  blossoms 

That  glint  and  toss  upon  an  emerald  sea. 

Our  own  great  West,  what  riches,  grandeur,  glory, 

Combine  to  weave  for  her  an  envied  crown  ! 
What  niche  awaits  her  in  Fame's  mighty  temple, 

What  seer  foretell  her  future's  high  renown  ? 
Her  sons  are  gifted,  valiant,  true,  and  faithful 

In  council  chamber  or  on  battlefield ; 
"  No  North,  no  South  ;  but  undivided  Union  " 

Is  the  stern  motto  graven  on  her  shield. 

'Mid  this  bright  halo  of  her  dawning  splendor, 

How  purely  beams  her  motherhood  serene ; 
With  what  just  pride  her  children  soon  shall  witness 

The  world  paying  tribute  to  our  Freedom's  queen  ! 
With  peace,  what  barrier  can  oppose  her  progress, 

What  avalanche  blockade  her  onward  way  ? 
No  chain  could  bind  her  upward  rising  pinions ; 

No  king's  behest  might  her  proud  spirit  stay. 


164  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

Renowned  in  song,  in  history,  in  story, 

Our  glorious  country  down  time's  stream  shall  glide ; 
Her  beacon  shall  flash  light  through  every  peril, 

Her  "Trust  in  God"  be  her  defense  and  guide. 
With  soul  attuned  to  every  truthful  measure, 

And  vigorous  heart  pulse,  skies  serene  and  fair, 
With  sons  and  daughters  gifted,  virtuous,  loving, 

What  land  on  earth  can  with  our  own  compare  ? 


The  Thunderstorm. 

MRS.    JULIA   L.    DUMONT. 

NO  radiant  beam  has  cheer'd  the  joyless  day, 
Nature  seems  robed  in  all  her  sad  attire ; 
Obscur'd  and  dim,  thro'  mists  of  thick'ning  gray, 
The  sun  appears  a  glowing  ball  of  fire. 

But  lo !  he  sinks  fast  in  the  western  heaven ; 

Thro'  murky  shades  the  night  bird  slowly  flies; 
White-gathering  clouds  in  swift  confusion  driven, 

Portend  a  tempest  low'ring  in  the  skies. 

The  moon  in  darkness  veils  her  crescent  form, 
Tho'  late,  Ohio,  on  thy  breast  she  smiled ; 

Thy  turbid  wave  rolls  dark  beneath  the  storm, 
And  round  thy  arks  the  rocking  winds  roar  wild. 

The  shivering  oak  alarms  the  listening  ear, 

And  scattered  fragments  cross  the  hunter's  path  ; 

The  vengeful  besom  sweeps  the  gay  parterre, 

And  ripening  fields  are  marked  with  fearful  scath. 


THE   SPIDER   ELF.  1 65 

Redoubling  horror  all  the  concave  shrouds, 
Reechoing  thunders  startle  and  affright ; 

The  lightnings  dance  among  the  subtle  clouds 
And  stream  athwart  the  stormy-bosom'd  night. 

Dark  and  sublime,  amid  the  fitful  glare, 
Destruction  rides  triumphant  on  the  storm, 

While  deep  and  fervent,  hark !  the  voice  of  prayer 
Is  heard  from  lips  that  never  learned  its  form. 

'Mid  scenes  like  this  the  spirit  seems  to  pause, 
In  wordless  dread,  on  Nature's  awful  verge ; 

Jehovah  stands  revealed,  the  eternal  cause, 

That  wakes  the  storm  and  binds  the  mad'ning  surge. 


The  Spider  Elf. 

JOHN   GIBSON   DUNN. 

WHEN  the  wolf's  whelp  is  howling  in  tangle-wood 
deep, 
And  the  forest's  low  moaning  hath  lulled  us  to  sleep, 
The  spider  elf  sits  in  the  whispering  leaves, 
And  he  worketh,  I  ween,  like  a  little  philosopher ; 
Windward  he  traileth  each  thread  as  he  weaves 
The  silvery  web  of  his  delicate  gossamer. 
With  quick-plying  fingers  he  hurleth  it  out, 
And  carefully  watcheth  the  varying  breeze ; 
He  whirleth  and  twisteth  and  flitteth  about, 
Till  he  maketh  it  fast  in  the  neighboring  trees. 
Quaint  pranks,  in  the  moonlight,  he  playeth,  I  ween, 
As  he  danceth  his  rope  o'er  the  shadowy  stream, 


1 66  POETS   AND  POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

And  calleth  his  love  from  the  opposite  tree, 

To  join  in  the  maze  of  his  wild  revelry. 

Swinging  and  chirping  and  skipping  along 

To  the  wizard-like  time  of  the  whip-poor-will's  song, — 

Skyward  and  earthward,  through  odorous  air, 

Fitfully  sweepeth  the  gibbering  pair. 

Like  a  necklace  of  silver  and  diamond  beads, 
The  dew  jewels  shine  on  the  gossamer  rope, 
Or  drip  on  the  grass  and  the  blossoming  weeds, 
Where  the  night  moth  and  all  of  his  chirruping  troop 
Hold  rout  in  the  blossoms  and  bursting  seeds. 

No  dew  fay  so  glad  when  he  windeth  his  horn, 
From  his  cell  in  the  first  open  blossom  of  morn  ; 
Nor  the  katydid's  chittering  song  when  she  tells 
Her  story  of  love  in  the  bonny  bluebells, 
Nor  spirit  so  happy,  in  water  or  wood, 
As  the  spider  elf  perched  o'er  the  murmuring  flood ; 
For  the  quaintest  of  sprites  is  this  elfin  philosopher, 
Building  his  fairylike  bridge  out  of  gossamer. 

To  a  Ruin. 

ELIJAH   EVAN   EDWARDS. 
I. 

ON  the  hill,  O  lonely  ruin, 
Emblem  of  the  frail  and  mortal, 
Grim  Decay  the  all-undoing, 

Peering  through  thy  broken  portal, 
Schoolhouse  old ! 


TO  A   RUIN.  167 

II. 

Through  the  vale  the  brook  is  flowing, 

Sad  its  murmur,  yet  enchanting : 
O'er  the  path  the  weeds  are  growing 

Rank  and  wild  from  Nature's  planting, 
Schoolhouse  old. 


in. 

'Neath  the  rafters,  sad  and  lonely, 
Sits  a  bird  of  night  complaining, 

Plumed  in  sable,  telling  only 

How  thy  glory  hath  been  waning, 
Schoolhouse  old. 


IV. 

Years  have  passed  since  song  and  laughter 
On  the  wayward  breeze  came  swelling  : 

Gloom  and  silence  followed  after, 
In  thy  moldy  chambers  dwelling, 
Schoolhouse  old. 


But  in  silence  sadder,  deeper, 
Voices  sweet  are  stilled  forever ; 

Slumbers  many  a  dreamless  sleeper 
In  the  churchyard  by  the  river, 
Schoolhouse  old. 


1 68  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 


VI. 


Years  have  passed,  I  too  am  going 
To  my  chamber  still  and  narrow, 

Where  the  river's  tide  is  flowing  ; 
I  may  join  them  ere  the  morrow, 
Schoolhouse  old. 


My   Native   Stream. 

JEROME   BONAPARTE   GIRARD. 

OLAUGHERY,  my  native  stream, 
Along  thy  banks  how  oft  I've  strayed 
And  watched  the  sun's  last  setting  beam, 

As  ling'ring  on  thy  breast  it  played : 
I've  stood  and  gazed  upon  thy  tide 
As  it  flowed  onward  to  the  main, 
And  felt  that  so  my  moments  glide 
To  never  more  come  back  again. 


The  lovely  vale  I'll  ne'er  forget 

Through  which  thy  rapid  waters  flow, 
In  fancy's  dream  I  see  it  yet, 

Just  as  it  looked  long  years  ago  : 
I  see  the  fields  and  lofty  hills 

O'er  which  I  rambled  when  a  boy ; 
The  rapture  of  the  vision  fills 

My  heart  with  pure,  unsullied  joy. 


THE   STAR   AND  THE   SEA.  1 69 

The  name  thou  bear'st,  forever  keep 

In  honor  of  the  soldier  brave 
Whose  ashes  on  thy  border  sleep 

With  not  a  stone  to  tell  his  grave ; 
But  loving  hearts  shall  cause  to  rise 

A  monument  deep-laid  and  high, 
Which  shall  relate  his  sad  surprise, 

How  bravely  fighting  he  did  die. 

My  native  stream,  I'll  never  more 

Live  near  thy  waters  swift  and  clear, 
May  walk  no  more  thy  pebbled  shore, 

Nor  music  of  thy  laughter  hear  ; 
Yet  scenes  of  childhood's  happy  hours 

Still  bind  me  with  a  magic  spell,  — 
My  dear  old  home,  ye  walks  and  bowers, 

I  bid  you  all  a  long  farewell. 


The  Star  and   the  Sea. 

JONATHAN   W.   GORDON. 

THE  star  loved  the  sea  and  the  sea  loved  the  star, 
But  in  vain,  for  they  still  were  apart ; 
And  the  sea  ever  sighed  to  his  mistress  afar, 
And  sobbed  in  his  sorrow  and  anguish  of  heart. 

But  the  star,  with  a  smile  in  her  bright,  flashing  eye, 
Looked  down  through  night's  shadows  afar, 

And  saw,  what  no  mistress  e'er  saw  with  a  sigh, 
In  the  heart  of  the  sea  the  bright  face  of  the  star. 


170  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  she  knew  that  her  throne  was  the  heart  of  the  sea, 
And  was  happy  to  know  that  she  reigned  there  alone; 

But  the  sea  was  not  happy,  —  oh,  how  could  he  be, 
Since  naught  but  her  shadow  e'er  came  to  his  throne  ? 

So  the  sea  could  not  go  to  the  queen  of  his  heart, 
And  the  star  could  not  stoop  from  above  ; 

Their  love  was  in  vain,  for  they  still  were  apart, 
And  apart,  could  but  dream  of  the  rapture  of  love. 


Mount    Ranier. 

FRANK   W.    HARNED. 

THOU  glorious  gem  of  grandeur  infinite 
Wrought  in  the  crown  of  Nature,  boundless  nurse, 
Upon  thy  brow  is  eloquently  writ 
The  majesty  of  Him,  whose  Hand  diverse 
Doth  scatter  seas  and  continents  disperse. 
For  thou  didst  hear  Creation's  natal  chime 
From  out  of  chaos  wake  the  Universe ; 
Thou  long  hast  been,  nor  younger  art  than  Time, 
Mute  monitor  of  God  and  silently  sublime. 

When  Phoebus  paints  thee  with  his  golden  bars, 

The  spirit  ponders  on  thy  majesty; 

A  brother  of  the  ocean  and  the  stars, 

Unfathomable  as  eternity 

And  matchless  in  thy  cold  sublimity. 

While  thou  hast  heard  each  rising  empire's  tread 

Resound  from  century  to  century, 


THE  BOXXY  BROWN  QUAIL.  171 

Still  towering  toward  the  sky  is  spread 

The  splendid  whiteness  of  thy  vast  cloud-cleaving  head. 

When  through  the  nightly  deep  in  splendor  falls 

The  starlight  on  thy  snowy  diadem, 

Then  Beauty  coldly  hangs  upon  thy  walls 

And  frosts  thee  o'er  with  many  a  glittering  gem. 

And  when  the  sable  host  with  cloudy  hem 

And  somber  trailing  train  sweep  through  the  air, 

With  jeweled  arms  outstretched  to  welcome  them 

The  Queen  of  Night  doth  mount  thy  silver  stair, 

While  starry  squadrons  keep  their  watch  eternal  there. 

Such  are  thy  matchless  glories,  they  do  seem 
Too  beautiful  for  substance ;  airy  things, 
The  panoramic  visions  of  a  dream. 
Such  as  when  borne  on  Fancy's  painted  wings, 
The  raptured  theme  around  the  spirit  flings; 
Such  as  do  dimly  speak  of  heights  untrod, 
Save  by  the  faith  (to  which  our  being  clings) 
That  in  His  image  we  survive  the  sod  ; 
The  deathless  hope  for  immortality  in  God. 


The   Bonny   Brown   Quail. 

LEE   O.    HARRIS. 

THE  song,  the  song  of  the  bonny  brown  quail ! 
My  heart  leaps  up  at  the  joyous  sound, 
When  first  the  gleam  of  the  morning  pale 
Steals  slowly  over  the  dewy  ground  ; 


172  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

Ere  yet  the  maples  along  the  hill 

Are  draped  with  fringes  of  sunlight  gold, 
I  hear  the  notes  of  his  piping  shrill, 

From  hill,  and  valley,  and  field,  and  wold — ■ 
"  Tis  light !     Tis  light ! 
Bob  White!     Bob  White!" 
Then  up  he  springs  to  the  topmost  rail, 

And  struts  and  sings  in  his  proud  delight, 
The  song  of  the  bonny  brown  quail. 

Thus  all  day  long  in  the  tasseled  corn, 

And  where  the  willowy  waters  flow, 
In  fields  by  the  blade  of  the  reaper  shorn ; 

In  copse,  and  dingle,  and  vale  below; 
Where  star-crowned  asters  delight  to  stand, 

And  golden-rods  in  their  robes  of  state ; 
And  in  the  furrows  of  fallow  land, 

He  calls  aloud  to  his  dusky  mate : 
"  All  right !     All  right ! 
Bob  White  !     Bob  White  !  " 
And  from  her  nook  where  the  brambles  trail, 

She  guides  the  course  of  her  whirring  flight 
By  the  song  of  the  bonny  brown  quail. 

O  bonny  bird  with  the  necklaced  throat, 
The  song  you  sing  is  but  brief  and  shrill, 

And  yet  methinks  there  never  was  note 
More  sweetly  tuned  by  a  master's  skill. 

And  like  the  song  of  a  vanished  day, 
It  fills  my  heart  with  a  subtle  joy, 


LEE   O.    HARRIS. 


THE   BONNY   BROWN   QUAIL.  1 73 

Till,  all  forgetting  my  locks  of  gray, 
I  mock  your  whistle,  again  a  boy  : 

"  You're  right !     You're  right ! 
Bob  White  !     Bob  White  !  " 
The  hair  may  whiten,  the  cheek  may  pale ; 

Time  only  mellows  the  old  delight 
In  the  song  of  the  bonny  brown  quail. 


When  gliding  slowly  from  east  to  west, 

The  long  black  shadows  begin  to  crawl ; 
Ere  dew  has  wetted  his  speckled  breast, 

The  brown  quail  whistles  his  loud  recall : 
"  Come  home  !     Come  home  !     The  wind  is  still ; 

The  light  is  paling  along  the  sky ; 
The  maples  are  nodding  below  the  hill ; 

The  world  is  sleepy  and  so  am  I." 
"  Good  night !     Good  night ! 
Bob  White  !     Bob  White  !  " 
The  stars  keep  watch  when  the  sunbeams  fail, 

And  morn  will  waken  the  golden  light, 
And  the  song  of  the  bonny  brown  quail. 

A  whirr  of  wings  o'er  the  stubble  brown ; 

A  patter  of  feet  below  the  hill ; 
A  close  brown  circle,  all  nestled  down  — 

"  Bob  White  !     Good  night !  "  and  all  is  still. 
The  rabbit  passes  with  velvet  tread, 

And  eyes  of  wonder  that  wink  and  peep ; 
The  winds  sing  lullaby  overhead, 

And  put  the  bonny  brown  quail  to  sleep. 


174  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Good  night !     Good  night ! 

Bob  White  !     Bob  White  ! 
Would  I  could  hide  in  the  dewy  vale, 

And  bid  the  cares  of  the  world  good-night, 
In  song,  like  the  bonny  brown  quail. 


The  Battle  of  the  Winds  and  the   Corn. 

LEE   O.    HARRIS. 

THE  winds  were  a  wild  and  vandal  host, 
The  robbers  of  woodland  bowers, 
And  laden  with  all  things  sweet,  but  most 

With  the  breath  of  ravished  flowers. 
The  corn  was  a  brave  and  gallant  band, 

Disdaining  the  robber's  spoil, 
But  rich  with  wealth  of  the  fruitful  land, 
To  gladden  the  heart  of  toil. 

All  night  the  winds  in  ambush  lay, 

In  the  depths  of  the  upland  wood ; 
All  night  the  corn  in  its  brave  array, 

In  the  shades  of  the  valley  stood  ; 
No  bivouac  fire  on  the  hill  was  seen, 

No  light  in  the  valley  camp, 
And  none  by  the  stream  that  ran  between, 

Save  the  flash  of  the  firefly's  lamp. 

But  when  the  birds  in  the  woodland  bowers 

Awakened  on  vine  and  tree, 
The  winds  blew  into  the  trumpet  flowers, 

And  sounded  the  reveille  ; 


THE   BATTLE  OF  THE  WINDS   AND   THE  CORN.      1 75 

And  their  stragglers  hurried  to  and  fro, 

To  plunder  the  clover  blooms 
While  the  marshaled  hosts  in  the  vale  below 

Stood  tossing  their  knightly  plumes. 

For  undismayed  in  their  battle  line 

Was  the  host  of  the  valiant  corn, 
And  their  hearts  were  strong  with  the  dewy  wine 

From  the  rosy  cup  of  morn. 
Ten  thousand  swords,  all  flashing  bright, 

Were  drawn  for  the  coming  fray ; 
Ten  thousand  pennons  were  dancing  light 

In  the  glow  of  the  dawning  day. 

Then  the  winds  in  dashing  and  wild  array 

Came  charging  across  the  vale, 
And  the  grass  was  beaten  along  the  way 

As  with  blows  of  a  mighty  flail. 
But  the  brave  green  guardians  of  the  plain  — 

They  battled  long  and  well, 
And  many  a  foeman  shrieked  with  pain 

Where  their  scimeters  rose  and  fell. 

Then  the  winds  dashed  fiercely  through  the  field, 

And  the  roar  of  the  battle  tide, 
With  shiver  of  blade  and  clash  of  shield, 

Swept  on  to  the  farther  side. 
Then  out  and  on,  with  a  laugh  of  scorn, 

They  fled  to  the  forest  gloom  ; 
But  the  sun  that  looked  on  the  gallant  corn 

Saw  many  a  tattered  plume. 


176  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  Watermelon. 

EDWIN   S.    HOPKINS. 

WHERE  rolls  the  broad  Indus,  and  Nature  reclines, 
While  strawberries  redden  on  tropical  vines, 
Where  golden  globes  follow  the  orange's  bloom, 
And  lemon  trees  blossom  while  spices  perfume ; 
Where  poppies  bloom  red  and  the  lily  in  fear 
Turns  pale  at  the  sight  in  the  vale  of  Cashmere, 
We  plucked  the  rich  melon  whose  green  beauty  cheers 
The  languorous  soul  with  its  emerald  spheres. 
When  cloudlets  of  April  their  showers  distill, 
And  zephyrs  of  May  skip  o'er  valley  and  hill ; 
When  soft  nights  of  June  with  an  odorous  sigh 
Dissolve  in  distress  at  the  dawn  of  July ; 
When  sweltering  August  in  rubicund  ire 
Sifts  over  the  dark  leaves  his  ashes  of  fire  — 
Then  Chloe  comes  tripping  with  jolly  delight, 
In  ebony  dimples  and  ivories  white, 
Comes  laden  with  green  globes  of  exquisite  wine, 
Of  beauty  bucolic  and  vintage  divine. 
O,  luscious  perfection  of  fruitage,  how  dear 
To  all  hearts  of  childhood  thy  memories  are ! 
What  glories  expectant  can  ever  compare 
With  thy  ripe  completeness  so  rich  and  so  rare  ? 
Come,  Chloe,  now  flourish  the  glittering  steel,  — 
Just  hear  how  it  crackles  as  if  it  could  feel 
The  exquisite  pain  of  a  heart  that  is  leal, 
In  luscious  response  to  our  thirsty  appeal. 
Let  other  lands  boast  of  their  sunnier  climes, 


THE   DYING   DAY.  177 

Of  olives  and  figs,  pomegranates  and  limes ; 
But  give  me  the  land  where  apple  trees  bend 
With  fruits  blushing  red  as  the  sunsets  descend, 
While  over  the  hillock  the  melon  vine  trails, 
In  fields  known  of  boyhood,  whose  fortitude  fails, 
When  twilight  and  moonlight  too  temptingly  blend, 
Where  woodlots  begin  and  the  rail  fences  end. 
O,  let  me  not  ever  thy  sweetness  forget, 
Or  twinges  of  conscience  cause  tears  of  regret ! 
The  lips  may  be  scorched  by  the  kiss  of  red  wine, 
But  bright  eyes  will  sparkle  when  recalling  thine. 
What  tremors  of  horror,  what  showers  of  bliss, 
Give  sadness  in  that,  but  give  gladness  in  this ! 


The   Dying   Day. 

BEN   R.    HYMAN. 

WHEN  slowly  sinks  the  sun  — 
Ere  night  her  shade  has  spun 
And  seeks  within  the  west 

A  peaceful  rest, 

The  amber-gleaming  rays 

The  earth  a  moment  graze, 

Then  slowly  fade  to  gray 

Of  waning  day. 

Now  like  a  ghostly  shroud 
Low  hangs  a  lurid  cloud, 
To  hide  from  mortal  sight 
The  dying  light ; 


178  TOETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  through  the  misty  air 
The  spectral  glint  and  glare 
Of  astral  tapers  fall 
Upon  the  pall. 

And  now  the  angels  drape 
The  skies  in  somber  crape, 
And  o'er  all  nature  sweep 

The  shadows  deep ; 
And  from  the  darkness  swells 
A  requiem  note,  which  dwells 
Upon  the  list'ning  air 

In  vain  despair. 

Oh,  day  beyond  recall ! 

The  dews  have  mourned  thy  fall, 

And  glist'ning  on  thy  bier 

Is  many  a  tear ; 
But  soon  another  sun 
Will  dry  them  one  by  one, 
And  mem'ries  of  thy  day 

Will  fade  away. 


Evening  at  Ardrossan. 

MRS.    NARCISSA   LEWIS  JENKINSON. 

THE  sun  at  last  has  sunk  below 
The  far  horizon's  crimson  glow, 
The  evening  shadows  gather  slow 
Above  the  sea  and  land. 


EVENING  AT  ARDROSSAN.  179 

The  ships  seem  melting  into  mist ; 
To  pools  of  gold  and  amethyst 
Creep  out  slow  waves  that  soft  have  kissed 
The  stretch  of  welcoming  sand. 

A  far,  pale  cloud  fair  Jura  lies, 

A  ghost-land  'neath  mysterious  skies  ; 

Its  twin  wraith-mountains  faintly  rise 

Across  the  molten  plain. 
Dim  Islay  of  the  Hebrides, 
Kintyre  afloat  on  hither  seas  — 
What  wondrous  spirit-lands  are  these 

That  haunt  the  mystic  main  ! 

And  sea-queen  Arran  strangely  thrills 
The  heart  to-night  —  its  heathery  hills 
Seamed  thick  with  diamond  threaded  rills 

That  bright  in  sunlight  shone, 
A  fairy  bride  with  emerald  crown 
And  gleaming  jewels  rippling  down, 
And  robe  of  plaided  green  and  brown 

With  misty  veil  o'erthrown. 

To  southward  Ailsa  Craig  uprears ; 
Its  adamant  of  myriad  years 
A  spirit  sentinel  appears, 

To  guard  the  storied  Ayr. 
The  vocal  woods,  the  daisied  ground 
Where  erst  the  muse  her  poet  found  — 
The  land  of  Burns,  so  glory-crowned  — 

Sleep  'neath  its  brooding  care. 


l8o  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The    Wistful    Days. 

ROBERT    UNDERWOOD    JOHNSON. 

{From  "So>igs  of  Liberty ,"  The  Century  Co.) 

WHAT  is  there  wanting  in  the  Spring? 
The  air  is  soft  as  yester-year ; 
The  happy-nested  green  is  here, 
And  half  the  world  is  on  the  wing. 
The  morning  beckons,  and  like  balm 
Are  westward  waters  blue  and  calm  ; 
Yet  something  's  wanting  in  the  Spring. 

What  is  it  wanting  in  the  Spring  ? 
O  April,  lover  to  us  all, 
What  is  so  poignant  in  thy  thrall 

When  children's  merry  voices  ring  ? 
What  haunts  us  in  the  cooing  dove 
More  subtle  than  the  speech  of  Love, 

What  nameless  lack  or  loss  of  Spring  ? 

Let  Youth  go  dally  with  the  Spring, 
Call  her  the  dear,  the  fair,  the  young ; 
And  all  her  graces  ever  sung 

Let  him,  once  more  rehearsing,  sing ; 
They  know,  who  keep  a  broken  tryst, 
Till  something  from  the  Spring  be  missed 

We  have  not  truly  known  the  Spring. 


BOB   WHITE.  ^i 

Bob  White. 

MRS.    ANNIE   FELLOWS  JOHNSTON. 

JUST  now,  beyond  the  turmoil  and  the  din 
Of  crowded  streets  that  city  walls  shut  in, 
I  hear  the  whistle  of  a  quail  begin : 

"  Bob  White  !     Bob  White  !  " 
So  faintly  and  far  away  falling 
It  seemed  that  a  dream  voice  was  calling, 

"  Bob  White  !     Bob  White  !  " 
How  the  old  sights  and  sounds  come  thronging 
And  thrill  me  with  sudden  longing ! 

Through  quiet  country  lanes  the  sunset  shines, 
Fence    corners    where    the    wild     rose     climbs    and 

twines, 
And  blooms  in  tangled  blackberry  vines, 

"  Bob  White  !     Bob  White  !  " 
I  envy  yon  home-going  swallow  ; 
Oh,  but  swiftly  to  rise  and  follow  — 

Follow  its  flight, 
Follow  it  back  with  happy  flying, 
Where  green-clad  hills  are  calmly  lying. 

Wheat  fields  whose  golden  silences  are  stirred 
By  whirling  insect  wings,  and  naught  is  heard 
But  plaintive  calling  of  that  one  sweet  word, 
"  Bob  White  !     Bob  White ! " 


1 82  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  a  smell  of  the  clover  growing 
In  the  meadow  lands  ripe  for  mowing, 

All  red  and  white, 
Over  the  shady  creek  comes  sailing, 
Past  willows  in  water  trailing. 

Tired  heart,  'tis  but  in  dreams  I  turn  my  feet 
Again  to  wander  in  the  ripening  wheat, 
And  hear  the  whistle  of  the  quail  repeat, 

"  Bob  White  !     Bob  White  !  " 
But  oh  !  there  is  joy  in  the  knowing, 
That  somewhere  green  pastures  are  growing, 

Though  out  of  sight, 
And  the  light  on  those  church  spires  dying, 
On  the  old  home  meadow  is  lying. 


White    River. 

MRS.     JOSIE    V.     H.    KOONS. 

WHEN  sunbeams  fall  in  showers  of  gold, 
At  morning  on  thy  dimpled  face, 
I  wander  by  thy  side,  controlled 

By  visions  of  a  vanquished  race ; 
Who  loved  thee  in  the  days  of  old 

And  trod  the  paths  my  footsteps  trace. 

When  noontide  warms  the  banks  of  green 
Where  languid  elms  their  watches  keep, 
Some  memory  in  thy  heart,  I  ween, 


STUBBLE.  183 

Of  sorrow  makes  thy  waters  weep, 
And  wind  around  with  weary  mien 

The  wrinkled  rocks  where  turtles  sleep. 

When  evening's  crown  of  rainbow  hues 
With  glory  lights  the  somber  west, 

Its  crimson  flame  I  watch  it  lose, 
Upon  thy  palpitating  breast, 

And  fain  would  know,  the  while  I  muse, 
The  burden  of  thy  deep  unrest. 

And  when  the  pale  moon  laughs  on  high 

To  see  her  image  in  thy  deeps 
'Mong  shadows  of  the  elm  trees  lie, 

All  tremulous,  about  me  creeps 
The  murmur  of  thy  soul  —  the  sigh, 

The  cry,  of  one  that  never  sleeps. 


Stubble. 

MARY    HANNAH    KROUT. 

OVER  the  hills  the  soft  sky  hangs  unclouded 
Through  all  the  pleasant  day  ; 
Down  the  long  valley  under  willowy  arches 

The  bright  brook  threads  its  way  ; 
Upon  the  trees  the  leaves  still  hang  unfaded, 

And,  in  the  long,  green  grass, 
A  few  wild  flowers  still  hide  their  timid  faces 
When  the  fierce  sunbeams  pass. 


1 84  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Still  the  cool,  dewy  dusk  of  early  morning 

Is  jubilant  with  song  ; 
The  drowsy  locusts  drone,  and  noisy  insects 

Chirp  shrilly  all  day  long. 
There  is  no  sign  of  Autumn  who,  approaching, 

Brings  swift  and  brilliant  death, 
When  every  shivering  leaf  shall  fall  and  wither 

Beneath  his  blighting  breath. 

There  is  no  sign,  —  save  where  the  naked  wheat  fields, 

Of  all  their  plenty  shorn, 
Show  only  wastes  of  yellow  stubble  bordered 

By  bannered  fields  of  corn. 
Only  this  left,  of  all  the  transformations 

That  in  each  stalk  were  wrought ; 
Up  from  the  germ  new  change  each  change  succeeding 

At  last  perfection  brought. 

No  ;  where  the  barn's  wide  doors  swing  idly  open 

I  see  the  heaped-up  sheaves, 
And  of  the  ripe  threshed  grain  catch  golden  glimpses 

Piled  neath  the  dim,  brown  eaves. 
So,  though  these  fields  lie  dead  when  earth  is  fairest, 

From  all  her  bloom  apart, 
Each  grain  they  bore  is  safely  stored  for  winter 

With  sunshine  in  its  heart. 

O  loving  friend  !  if,  when  'tis  yet  life's  summer, 

Earth's  griefs  have  made  you  old, 
Look  where  the  past  forever  in  safe  keeping 

Their  garnered  harvests  hold ; 


OLD   BROWN'S    HEAD.  185 

For,  if  but  one  sweet  word  has  been  remembered 

Through  long,  slow  years  of  pain, 
The  saddest  soul  can  never  say  in  sorrow 

That  it  has  lived  in  vain. 


Old  Brown's  Head. 

(A  high  projecting  rock  on  the  coast  of  Maine.) 
MRS.   JENNIE    G.    KINLEY. 

SADLY  I  sit  in  my  distant  home, 
And  think  of  the  sounding  sea, 
And  the  waves  that  break  on  Old  Brown's  Head 
Dwell  in  my  memory. 

I  listen,  in  thought,  to  the  sea  gull's  scream, 

And  see  the  waves  at  play, 
Roaring  and  dashing  on  Old  Brown's  Head 

Through  all  the  summer's  day. 

In  fancy,  I  gather  the  mosses  brown, 
And  garner  the  shining  shells, 

And  climb  the  rough  rocks  of  Old  Brown's  Head 
That  rise  like  sentinels. 

The  stately  ships,  in  the  midday  light, 
Seem  floating  on  seas  of  pearl, 

And  memory  sits  on  Old  Brown's  Head 
Watching  the  sails  unfurl. 


1 86  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

The  distant  islands  like  specks  appear, 

Adorned  by  a  purple  mist, 
And  seem,  as  I  gaze  on  Old  Brown's  Head, 

By  perpetual  sunshine  kissed ; 

And  the  time  when  life  and  heart  were  young 

Seems  a  golden  gala  day, 
When  I  dreamed  on  the  bluffs  of  Old  Brown's  Head, 

Heedless  of  work  or  play. 

But  now,  I  gaze  on  the  years  to  come, 

Through  a  sheen  of  dewy  mist, 
While  the  past,  from  the  top  of  Old  Brown's  Head 

Is  a  world  of  amethyst. 


The  Day's  Burial. 

MRS.   FRANCES   LOCKE. 

UP  the  zenith  floats  a  cloud, 
White  and  bound  with  gold  — 
Like  a  giant  monarch's  shroud 

O'er  the  sky  unrolled, 
Ready  for  the  royal  dead  — 
Ready  to  enfold. 

Slowly  from  the  sloping  west, 

On  their  silver  steeds, 
Ride  the  mourners  darkly  dress'd  — 

Widows  in  their  weeds  — 
While  from  out  each  wounded  breast 

Crimson  anguish  bleeds. 


A   PASTORAL.  187 

Grander  greatness  never  wept 

In  the  vales  terrestrial ; 
Prouder  pageant  never  swept 

O'er  the  heights  celestial ; 
But  the  funeral  glare  grows  dim, 

Twilight  chants  the  closing  hymn. 

In  the  silent,  solemn  gray, 

All  the  saintly  stars, 
Launched  in  the  ethereal  wave, 

Tremblingly  begin  to  pray, 
As  they  guard  the  newmade  grave 

Of  the  vanished  day. 


A  Pastoral. 

JAMES   B.    MARTINDALE. 

BROOKLET  !     Laughing  little  brooklet, 
Winding  through  my  native  dell ; 
Keeper  of  my  heart's  young  secret, 

Have  you  kept  the  secret  well  ? 
Boyhood's  secrets  are  a  burden  ; 

And  with  no  one  else  to  tell, 
Tell  me,  have  you  kept  it  well  ? 

How  you  sparkled  in  the  moonlight, 
Laughing  down  my  boyish  woe  ; 

Lightly  bearing  my  heart's  burden 
In  your  ceaseless  onward  flow. 


1 88  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Fain  would  I  have  drifted  with  you, 

Whither  caring  not  to  know, 
In  that  time  of  long  ago. 

Ah,  that  hour !  I  still  remember, 
How  my  life  seemed  to  divide, 

And  a  past  it  seemed  to  have  then, 
And  a  future  blank  and  wide. 

And  my  choice  was  fixed  to  wander 
In  the  world  that  lay  outside, 

World  mysterious  and  untried. 

Brooklet,  happy  little  brooklet, 
You  have  kept  my  secret  well ; 

For  the  play  is  almost  ended. 
Hark  !     I  hear  the  curtain  bell. 

Bear  it  now  unto  the  ocean, 

Where  are  secrets  none  can  tell. 

Happy  brooklet,  fare  thee  well. 


The   Old   House   Fly. 

DR.   JAMES   NEWTON    MATHEWS. 
I. 

GO  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift  the  windows 
high, 
Let  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the  jolly  fly ; 
I'm  weary  of  this  stale  repose,  and  long  to  hear  again 
The  sweetest  sound  of  all  the  year,  the  fly  upon  the 
pane ; — 


THE   OLD   HOUSE  FLY.  1 89 

I  long  to  see  him  bobbing  up  and  down  on  sill  and 

sash, 
I  long  to  feel  his  tickling  tread  upon  my  soft  mustache ; 
I  love  to  see  him  tilting  on  his  slender,  tender  toes, 
I  love  to  watch  him  bump,  and  buzz,  and  balance  on  his 

nose  ;  — 
In  all  the  universe,  to-day,  of  merry  song  and  glee, 
O,  tell  me  where's  another  that  is  happier  than  he  ? 
Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift  the  windows 

high, 
Let  out  the  gloom  and  silence,  and  let  in  the  jolly  fly. 


11. 

O,  the  old  house  fly !  O,  the  brave  house  fly  ! 
A-straddling  o'er  the  butter  dish,  a-sprawling  o'er  the 

pie, — 
A-jogging  thro'  the  jell  and  jam  and  jouncing  round  the 

cream, 
And  prone  to  risk  a  summer  sail  upon  the  milky  stream  ; 
A  roving  life  the  rascal  leads  thro'  all  the  busy  hours, 
A-sipping  only  of  the  sweets,  and  skipping  all  the  sours; 
A  button-headed  roustabout,  a  lover  light  and  bold, 
Who  revels  on  the  ripest  lips  that  mortal  eyes  behold ; 
Who  clambers  up  the  softest  cheek,  and  up  the  whitest 

arm, 
And  loiters  on  the  fairest  breast  that  ever  love  made 

warm ; 
Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift  the  windows 

high, 
Let  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the  jolly  fly. 


190  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

III. 

O,  the  old  house  fly  !  O,  the  jolly  house  fly  ! 

He  was  present  at  our  coming,  he'll  be  with  us  when  we 

die ; 
From  Turkestan  to  Mexico,  his  broad  dominion  runs, 
And  his  nature  never  changes  with  the  "  process  of  the 

suns "  ; 
From  the  days  of  dusky  Cheops,  down  thro'  centuries  of 

dirt, 
'T  is  a  matter  of  conjecture  if  he  ever  washed  his  shirt ; 
He  has  dined  with   every  poet  from   the   patriarchal 

Chaucer, 
He    has  taken  pleasure  trips   in    Billy    Shakespeare's 

saucer ; 
He  dipped  his  saucy  noddle  into  Cleopatra's  cup, 
When  the  amorous  Antonius  his  kingdom  offered  up  ; 
Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift  the  windows 

high, 
Let  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the  jolly  fly. 

IV. 

O,  the  old  house  fly  !  O,  the  naughty  house  fly ; 

He  dances  on  the  baby's  lip  and  on  the  dead  man's  eye ; 

He's  first  to  taste  the  tawny  wine  within  the  tippler's 

glass, 
He  prances  on  the  suppliant's  nose,  whene'er  he  goes  to 

mass ; 
He's  found  within  the  skipper's  hut,  and  in  the  gilded 

hall, 
A  giddy  gambolier  who  pays  his  compliments  to  all; 


JUNE   ROSES.  191 

When  our  mothers  rocked  the  cradles,  in  the  cabins  of 

our  birth, 
His    happy  chorus    blended  with    the    cricket   on    the 

hearth,  — 
And  I  love  the  recollection  of  the  hours  I've  seen  him 

crawl, 
In   the   summer  time  of   childhood,  up  and  down  the 

whitened  wall ; 
Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift  the  windows 

high, 
Let  out  the  gloom  and  silence,  and  let  in  the  jolly  fly. 


June   Roses. 

MRS.    HETTIE   ATHON   MORRISON. 

WHEN  the  skies  are  overarching, 
In  their  blue  of  dazzling  splendor, 
And  the  airs,  through  leafy  forests, 

Call  in  whispers  low  and  tender  ; 
When  each  rosy  morn  is  wakened 

By  the  vows  of  some  bird  lover, 
And  the  honeybees  still  linger 

'Mid  the  dewy  blooms  of  clover; 
When,  all  melody  and  beauty, 

Earth  in  sweetest  calm  reposes, 
Then  Heaven's  fairest  gift  is  given  — 

She  is  crowned  with  sweet  June  roses. 

Saintly  white  as  holy  virgins, 
Consecrated  brides  of  Heaven, 


192  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Warmly  flushing  as  a  maiden 

When  love's  sweet,  first  kiss  is  given, 
Glowing  red  as  ardent  lovers 

Fondest  love  words  fondly  breathing, 
Are  the  roses  —  all  the  hillsides, 

All  the  vales  with  beauty  wreathing; 
Oh  !  a  time  when  hearts  should  gladden, 

When  from  morn  till  twilight  closes, 
Sweetest  joy  through  earth's  heart  pulses, 

And  she  wears  her  wreath  of  roses. 

Fair  to  me  the  sweet  June  roses  ; 

Though  my  tears  are  freely  falling, 
As  my  thoughts  in  sad  remembrance 

One  June  morn  will  keep  recalling, 
When  its  fairest  blooms  I  gathered, 

And  their  freshness  scarce  departed 
Ere  the  eyes  were  closed  that  loved  them, 

And  death  left  me  broken-hearted. 
Ever  since  to  me  the  saddest 

Time  is  when  the  earth  reposes 
In  her  fairest  bloom  and  beauty 

'Neath  her  crown  of  sweet  June  roses. 

The  Wind   Patrol. 

MEREDITH   NICHOLSON. 

NO  guard  ventures  to  ask  toll 
Of  the  wind's  midnight  patrol, 
And  no  eyes,  however  keen, 
Have  its  flying  legion  seen. 


THE   WIND   PATROL.  1 93 

But  a  thousand  times  and  one, 
I  have  heard  the  wind  men  run. 
In  the  peaceful  summer  night 
Or  when  snows  lie  cold  and  white, 
From  their  far,  unmapped  abode 
In  contempt  of  path  and  road 
Come  the  wind  men  like  a  breath, 
Fatefully,  and  swift  as  death. 
Sometimes  with  a  battle  clash 
Through  the  forest  trees  they  dash  ; 
And  at  other  times  they  creep 
Like  a  dream  through  vales  of  sleep. 
Now  the  wind  men  of  the  day 
Other  spirits  must  obey  ; 
But  these  midnight  riders  own 
Potent  charms  no  day  has  known, 
Whether  leaving  in  their  wake 
Needful  rain  or  snowy  flake, 
Or,  the  earliest  night  in  spring, 
Making  all  the  sap  to  sing. 
Elms  and  beeches  in  my  wood 
Long  as  guard  for  me  have  stood ; 
But  across  their  barricade 
Ride  the  wind  men  unafraid, 
And,  with  fearful  challenge  roar, 
Charge  upon  my  pane  and  door. 
Then  before  the  house  grows  still 
They  have  gained  the  farthest  hill 
Of  my  quiet  valley's  marge, 
Thence  again  to  charge  and  charge. 


194  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Christmas  in   the  Pines. 

MEREDITH   NICHOLSON. 

THE  sky  was  clear  all  yesterday, 
From  dawn  until  the  sunset's  flame  ; 
But  when  the  red  had  grown  to  gray, 
Out  of  the  west  the  snow  clouds  came. 

At  midnight  by  the  dying  fire, 

Watching  the  spruce  boughs  glow  and  pale, 
I  heard  outside  a  tumult  dire, 

And  the  fierce  roaring  of  the  gale. 

Now  with  the  morning  comes  a  lull ; 

The  sun  shines  boldly  in  the  east 
Upon  a  world  made  beautiful 

In  vesture  for  the  Christmas  feast. 

Into  the  pathless  waste  I  go, 

With  muffled  step  among  the  pines 

That,  robed  in  sunlight  and  soft  snow, 
Stand  like  a  thousand  radiant  shrines. 

Save  for  a  lad's  song,  far  and  faint, 
There  is  no  sound  in  all  the  wood ; 

The  murmuring  pines  are  still ;  their  plaint 
At  last  was  heard  and  understood. 

Here  floats  no  chime  of  Christmas  bell, 
There  is  no  voice  to  give  me  cheer ; 

But  through  the  pine  wood  all  is  well, 
For  God  and  love  and  peace  are  here. 


BONNIE   BROWN   BIRD   IN  THE   MULBERRY  TREE.      1 95 

The  Bonnie  Brown  Bird  in  the  Mulberry  Tree. 

MRS.    REBECCA   S.    NICHOLS. 

IN  a  green  meadow,  laced  by  a  silvery  stream, 
Where  the  lilies  all  day  seem  to  float  in  a  dream 
On  the  soft  gurgling  waves,  in  their  bright  pebbled 

bed  — 
Where  the  emerald  turf  sprang  up  light  from  the  tread  — 
In  the  days  that  have  vanished,  forever,  for  me, 
There  grew  in  its  prime  a  red  Mulberry  Tree. 

How  stalwart  its  form — what  a  wealth  of  green  leaves! 
Where  the  sunlight  came  sifting,  like  rain,  through  the 

eaves, 
With  a  right  royal  canopy  stretched  overhead, 
And  the  ruby-like  berries  strung  on  a  gold  thread, 
Enticing  the  birds,  and  enticing  to  me, 
As  I  swung  through  the  air,  'neath  the  Mulberry  Tree. 

'T  was  cunningly  fastened,  that  swing,  on  a  bough, 
And   the   rich-freighted   branches  brushed  lightly  my 

brow, 
As  up  I  rose  higher  than  others  might  dare, 
And  tasted  the  joys  of  the  birds  in  the  air :  — 
While  one  little  warbler,  with  throat  full  of  glee, 
Built  its  nest  every  spring  in  the  Mulberry  Tree. 

Oh !  sunshine  that  mocketh,  whose  light  is  so  cold, 
Where,  where  is  the  glory  that  crowned  you  of  old  ? 


196  POETS   AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Where  hides  the  soft  splendor  that  brightened  the  ways, 
And  dazzled  the  child,  in  those  spell-woven  days  ? 
Where  sings  the  sweet  bird  that  once  sang  unto  me, 
From  its  zephyr-rocked  nest  in  the  Mulberry  Tree? 

Away  with  this  thought !  —  let  me  dream  like  a  child  ; 
Let  me  bound  o'er  the  meadow,  with  hair  streaming 

wild  ! 
Once  more  in  the  swing,  and  with  nothing  to  fear, 
The  sun  shining  brightly,  the  heav'ns  beaming  clear ; 
And  hark  !  'tis  the  strain  of  a  lost  melody 
From  the  bonnie  brown  bird  in  the  Mulberry  Tree. 

Sing  on  !  — is  it  true  I  e'er  wandered  from  this  ? 
That  I've  drunk  of  each  sorrow — have  tasted  each  bliss? 
That  the  world,  with  its  lures,  with  its  lies  and  its  art, 
Has  rolled  a  cold  stone  o'er  the  tomb  of  the  heart  ? 
Is  it  true,  laughing  meadow  —  oh,  verdurous  sea! 
That  a  child  swings  no  more  'neath  the  Mulberry  Tree? 

Sing  on  ! — how  it  steals  o'er  each  chord — through  each 

vein, 
And  fills  every  sense  with  an  exquisite  pain ; 
Now  whisp'ring  with  memory,  now  murm'ring  of  love, 
Now  lifting  the  soul  to  the  star  realms  above ; 
Thus  Hope,  in  the  heart,  sang  once  sweetly  to  me, 
As  the  bonnie  brown  bird  in  the  Mulberry  Tree. 

Sing  on,  gentle  minstrel,  as  upward  I  spring 
Through  the  element  rare,  in  the  rapturous  swing ! 


APOSTROPHE  TO  THE   SUN.  1 97 

Ah  !  yes,  those  are  tones  once  familiar  in  years, 
Ere  the  bolt  was  shot  back  from  the  gateway  of  tears ! 
How  long  —  oh,  how  long,  wilt  thou  sing  thus  to  me, 
Thou  bonnie  brown  bird  in  the  Mulberry  Tree  ? 

How  long  ?     It  has  ceased  :  —  the  hoarse  drum  and  the 

throng 
Have  broken  the  thread  of  its  Heaven-taught  song : 
The  meadow  has  faded  —  the  lilies  have  died; 
The  stream  in  its  bed  has  been  shrunken  and  dried ; 
And  no  child  ever  swings  there  in  innocent  glee, 
Or  hears  a  brown  bird  in  the  Mulberry  Tree. 

Apostrophe  to  the  Sun. 

PROFESSOR   RICHARD   OWEN. 

FIT  type  of  One  who  rose  with  healing  in  His  wings, 
Thou  glorious  orb,  great  source  of  light  and  heat 
and  earth, 
The  source  of  vital  power  to  plant  and  beast  and  man, 
Source  of  electric  thrill,  and  magnet's  mystic  trend, 
We  hail  thee,  sent  from  heaven  to  bless  thy  offspring, 

earth  ! 
Thy  balmy  breath  calls  forth  her  verdure's  charming 

growth, 
The  odors  and  the  hues  that  make  the  floral  throng, 
Entrance  the  mortal  eye  and  please  th'  olfactory  sense. 
Thy  beams  reflect  the  pearls  from  dew-dropped  floral  cup, 
Thy  irised  arch  gives  pledge  that  not  by  deluge-flood 
Shall  earth  again  be  swept,  to  punish  sinful  man. 


198  POETS   AND   rOETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Thy  strong  attractive  power  holds  to  unvarying  course 

This  circling  earth,  amid  the  starry  host  of  heaven. 

What  wonder  that,  untaught  by  God's  sweet  sacred  writ, 

The  Parsee's  wondering  soul  does  homage  to  thy  light ! 

How  happy  we,  informed  by  Biblic-gathered  truth 

That  thy  creative  Lord  is  man's  Eternal  God  ; 

And  that,  in  love  divine,  He  calls  us  "children  dear  "; 

Inviting  each  and  all,  at  eventide  and  morn, 

On  prostrate  knee,  to  ask  that  we  may  all  receive 

From  Him  who  made  the  world,  our  Heavenly  Father, 

kind, 
Eternal  life  with  Him  when  earth  shall  be  no  more ! 


Rainy   Days  at   the   Farm. 

WILLIAM   W.    PFRIMMER. 

FOR  three  whole  days  no  sun  has  shone, 
For  three  whole  nights  no  star  nor  moon 
Has  struggled  through  the  low-hung  clouds ; 
A  dismal  gloom  the  world  enshrouds. 
Across  the  vale  the  mist-cloud  drifts 
With  many  torn  and  ragged  rifts 
That  half  conceal  and  half  disclose 
The  plane  trees  where  the  river  flows. 
But  now  and  then,  with  mutterings  deep, 
Like  giants  grumbling,  half  asleep, 
A  darker  pall  o'erspreads  the  plain ; 
Then  comes  the  downpour  of  the  rain. 
The  rill  no  longer  laughing  leaps 
Down  from  its  rocky  ledge,  and  creeps 


RAINY   DAYS   AT  THE   FARM.  199 

Beneath  the  old  rail  fence  to  play 
In  brambled  ambush  all  the  day ; 
But  in  its  stead  a  raging  tide, 
Disdaining  pleasures  on  each  side, 
In  angry  haste  now  seems  to  go 
To  join  the  sullen  stream  below. 
No  sound  is  heard  o'er  hill  and  dale 
Save  now  and  then  a  piping  quail 
Or  partridge  drumming  in  the  wood, 
Where  once  the  heavy  timber  stood. 
Low  fly  the  swallow  and  the  bat, 
The  mildew  gathers  'neath  the  mat; 
The  tidy  housewife,  in  despair, 
Finds  grimy  footprints  everywhere. 
The  farmer  stands  beside  his  gate 
And  views  with  looks  disconsolate 
His  sodden  fields  of  tangled  grain, 
Low  beaten  by  the  wind  and  rain, 
Or  sits  within  the  silent  room 
A  prey  to  discontent  and  gloom, 
While  at  his  feet  the  house  dog  lies, 
A  dreamy  sadness  in  his  eyes. 
Time  seems  to  go  with  lagging  speed, 
For  rainy  days  are  long  indeed ; 
And  longer  still  if  they  are  blent 
And  mingled  with  discouragement. 

But  where  the  old  barn  gables  rise 

With  moss-grown  roofs  toward  leaden  skies, 

From  just  beneath,  or  down  below, 

For  who  can  tell,  or  who  may  know, 


200  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

There  comes  the  muffled  shout  and  din 
Of  joyous  rioting  within. 
Ah,  who  can  tell  by  what  strange  ways, 
Or  by  what  means  on  rainy  days 
The  farmer  boys  all  seem  to  know 
To  just  which  neighbor's  barn  to  go  ? 

There  lowering  skies  and  driving  rain 
May  try  their  powers  all  in  vain 
To  dampen  spirits  light  and  free, 
Or  check  their  boist'rous  revelry. 
There  romping  madcaps  free  from  harm, 
Protected  by  some  unseen  charm, 
Climb  to  the  lofty  beams  and  leap 
Down  to  the  clover's  scented  heap  ; 
Burrow  like  moles  beneath  the  hay ; 
Race  like  squirrels  from  bin  to  bay ; 
Or  play  again  those  dear  old  games 
The  mention  of  whose  very  names 
Wakes  in  my  heart  a  vain  regret, 
A  sense  of  loss,  a  something  yet 
That  time  can  never  quite  efface, 
That  later  joys  cannot  replace. 
Play  on,  ye  madcaps,  free  from  care ! 
Let  older  hearts  the  burden  bear ; 
For  all  too  soon  ye  each  must  own 
The  sweetest  pleasures  you  have  known 
Lie  somewhere  lost  among  the  plays 
In  old  farm  barns  on  rainy  days. 


INDIAN   SUMMER.  20I 

Indian  Summer. 

JOHN   W.    SHOCKLEY. 

ONCE,  yearly,  as  earth  coasts  the  rim 
Of  wide  celestial  seas, 
We  hail  the  shores  of  Dreamland  dim, 

Whence  many  a  summer  breeze 
With  pensive  memories,  day  and  night, 

Stirs  all  the  autumn  haze  — 
Dripping  the  leaves  in  calm  delight 
Through  Indian  Summer  days. 

Here,  ere  the  white  Caucasian  sail 

Flapped  round  Columbia's  strand, 
The  Indian,  dying,  struck  the  trail 

To  Happy  Hunting  land  ; 
And  passed  'neath  leafy  arches  far 

With  faithful  dog  and  bow, 
To  where  the  Spirit  Game-lands  are 

Beyond  the  sunset  glow. 

And,  as  he  passed,  he  filled  the  wood 

With  hunting  songs  so  fair, 
They  die  not,  but  with  ebb  and  flood, 

Live  aye  unheard  in  air ; 
And  through  the  pulse  of  kindred  souls, 

Recalling  dog  and  gun, 
While  earth  thro'  painted  leaf-fall  rolls, 

The  sweet  songs  ever  run. 


202  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

And  now  beneath  the  hazy  dome, 

While  trees  their  leaves  drip  down, 
The  hunter  seeks  his  forest  home, 

Afar  from  field  and  town ; 
For  he  must  sleep  in  cozy  tent, 

'Mid  hills,  by  sylvan  streams, 
With  many  colored  leaves  besprent, 

To  dream  his  sweetest  dreams. 

For  while  the  primal  hunting  man 

Tents  in  the  cultured  brain 
In  groves  of  thought  still  trod  by  Pan, 

And  Dian  lives  again, 
'T  is  sweet  to  list  with  dreaming  ear 

To  dogs  in  woodlands  deep, 
Baying  the  trail  of  startled  deer 

As  morn  awakes  from  sleep. 

Blest  season,  when  each  purple  dawn 

Shows  thro'  the  leaf-stained  air 
The  curtain  of  our  sleep  updrawn, 

And  one  fair  dream  still  there  — 
A  hunter  in  the  forest  shade 

'Neath  Indian  Summer's  sun, 
Chasing  the  deer  o'er  hill  and  glade 

With  faithful  dog  and  gun. 


THE   MARCH   FROSTS.  203 


The  March   Frosts. 

EVALEEN    STEIN. 
(By  permission  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.) 

THE  little  leaves  that  tip  the  trees 
With  palest  greenery  everywhere, 
O  bitter  nights,  that  blight  and  freeze, 
And  hurtling  winds  and  icy  air, 
Forbear  !  forbear ! 
Have  you  no  tenderness  for  these, 
Nor  any  care  ? 

No  pity  for  the  buds  that  break 

And  fringe  the  maples,  rosy  red, 
The  starting  apple-sprays,  that  make 
A  silver  fretwork  overhead  ? 
When  these  are  dead, 
How  shall  the  April  for  their  sake 
Be  comforted  ? 


Oh,  all  my  heart  is  full  of  pain  ! 

The  hurt  they  feel  is  hurt  to  me ! 
The  helpless  little  leaves !     I  fain 
Would  cherish  them  so  tenderly, 
It  might  not  be 
Such  cruel  grief  should  fall  again 
On  any  tree ! 


204  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

I  would  that  I  could  gently  fold, 

Against  my  breast,  for  sheltering, 
Each  tiniest  bud  the  peach  boughs  hold, 
And  every  gracious  bourgeoning 
Of  everything  ; 
So  fondling  them,  through  frost  and  cold, 
Until  the  spring ! 


The   Marshes. 

EVALEEN    STEIN. 

{By  permission  of  Small,  Maynard  6°  Co.) 

PALE,  shimmering  skies  that  lightly  bear 
Fine,  filmy  clouds  that  idly  fare 
In  lazy  wavering,  wheresoe'er 
The  faint,  uncertain  breezes  go  ; 

And  even  so, 
In  airy  motion  down  below, 
Tall  wild  rice,  wild  rice  everywhere ! 

From  out  the  marshv  wilderness, 
With  plumes  and  pennons  numberless, 
In  endless  lines  its  armies  press ; 

The  very  river  it  besets, 

And  foils  and  frets, 

With  leaves  like  little  bayonets 
That  pierce  the  light  and  glint  and  gleam 
And  glitter  in  the  midmost  stream ; 


EVALEEN   STEIN. 


THE   MARSHES.  205 

And  so  besieged  and  closed  about, 

The  captive  waves  lap  in  and  out 
Among  the  lacing  stems,  and  creep 
Through  flowered  grasses,  and  through  deep 

Translucent  pools  wherein  they  seem 
To  drowse  and  dream 
In  draughts  of  liquid  light,  and  steep 

In  sunbeams,  till,  too  spent  to  stir, 
They  sink  into  a  golden  sleep, 

So  held  perpetual  prisoner. 

And  over  all  there  softly  plays, 
Through  summer  days, 
A  marvel  of  pale  violet  haze 
That  sheathes  and  wreathes  and  overlays 

The  thousand  swaying  plumes  that  rise 
From  all  those  silvery  water-ways, 

Wherein  the  drowsy  river  lies, 

Content  to  clasp  the  gracious  skies 
That  twinkle  through  its  tangled  maze, 

And  nestle  in  it  lazywise. 

And,  now  and  then,  a  wild  bird  flies 

From  hidden  haunts  among  the  reeds ; 
Or,  faintly  heard,  a  bittern  cries 

Across  the  tasseled  waterweeds  ; 
Or,  floating  upward  from  the  green 
Young  willow  wands,  with  sunny  sheen 

On  pearly  breast,  and  wings  outspread, 

A  white  crane  journeys  overhead. 


206  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

For  leagues  on  leagues  no  sign  is  there 

Of  any  snare 
For  human  toil,  nor  grief,  nor  care ; 
The  fields  for  bread  lie  otherwhere. 
—  Only  the  wild  rice,  straight  and  tall, 
The  wild  rice  waving  over  all. 


Honeysuckles. 

WILLIAM    B.  VICKERS. 

STRETCHED  idly  in  recumbent  ease 
Upon  the  green  and  velvet  grass, 
Through  leaves  of  overarching  trees, 
I  watch  the  fleecy  cloudlets  pass. 

There  to  the  right  the  roses  blush, 
And  on  the  left  are  rich  perfumes ; 

But  sweetest  incense  seems  to  gush 
From  where  the  honeysuckle  blooms. 

And  from  its  honey-laaten  breath  — 
Food  for  the  fairy  humming  bird  — 

Remembrance  springs  as  life  from  death, 
And  thoughts  of  other  days  are  stirred. 

Back  to  my  youth  my  fancies  flee ; 

I  seem  to  hear  glad  voices  swell, 
And  through  half-closed  eyes  to  see 

The  honeysuckle  by  the  well, 


TO  THE   OHIO    RIVER.  207 

The  farmhouse  porch,  the  open  door, 
The  garden  walls,  the  orchard  bars, 

The  welcome  heard  on  earth  no  more, 
But  whispered  to  me  from  the  stars  — 

All  these,  and  more,  I  see  and  hear, 

And  pleasant  dreams  my  sense  enthralls, 

While  over  and  beyond  me  there 
The  honeysuckle's  fragrance  falls. 


To  the  Ohio  River. 

MRS.    BESSIE    H.    WOOLFORD. 

THEY  may  talk  of  the  Danube  and  castle-crowned 
Rhine, 
Of  the  rivers  that  flow  where  the  olive  and  vine 
Rise  up  in  fair  France,  or  by  Italy's  sea ; 
Yet,  than  all  famous  streams  thou  art  dearer  to  me, 
In  the  darkness  of  night,  or  with  sunlight  a-quiver : 
On-flowing  forever,  O  beautiful  river ! 

When  the  trees  that  God  planted  in  Eden  were  young, 
When    the   nations   of    Earth   were   one    kindred   and 

tongue, 
Ere  a  leader  arose  to  make  Israel  free, 
Or  the  Nazarene  wandered  by  fair  Galilee, 
Then,  as  now,  thou  wert  flowing  forever  and  ever, 
Through  ages  of  silence,  O  beautiful  river ! 


208  ETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

s  no  future  foretold  thee,  no  prophecy  heard 
In  the  sigh  of  the  wind,  or  the  song  of  the  bird, 
Of  the  cities  that  smile  where  thy  bright  waters  gleam, 
Like  the  beautiful  visions  we  see  when  we  dream, 
Or  in  child?.  fresl    -norning  when  fancy  floats  free 

As  yon  rose-bordered  cloud  that  is  mirrored  in  thee  ? 

The  song  thou  art  singing  with  rhythmical  flow, 

Is  the  song  thou  wert  singing  long  aeons  ago, 

When  th;  .    .  .        ^rkling  and  pure  from  their 

And  the  finger  of  God  marked  thy  bounds  and   thy 

com   . 
Still  thine  alders  will  bend,  and  thine  aspen  trees  quiver, 
O'er  thy  moon-flooded  surface,  thou  beautiful  river ! 

n,  bearing  with  thee  the  tide  of  the  years, 
Our  joys  and  our  sorrows,  our  smiles  and  our  tears  ; 

v  on  with  unchanging,  unchangeable  motion,  — 
Like  thee,  we  rr.  \      '.fly's  ocean ;  — 

life  shall  be  lost  in  the  Life  of  the  Giver, 
Onward,  flow  c  .'.ward,  O  beautiful  river  ! 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS. 


Song  of  the   Sea. 

ROBERT   H.   BREWINGTON. 

BESIDE  the  winding  rock-bound  shore 
The  white-capped  breaker's  ceaseless  roll 
Rings  out  an  anthem  evermore, 
Wild  music  that  enchants  the  soul. 

O  restless,  wild,  tumultuous  wave, 
Child  of  the  dread  unfathomed  sea ! 

Thy  voice,  sepulchral  as  the  grave, 
Is  full  of  deep-toned  mystery. 

Who  taught  thee  how  to  chant  the  strain 

Of  weird,  entrancing  melody 
That  thrills  my  soul  and  whirls  my  brain  ? 

Give  answer,  O  thou  restless  sea ! 

Are  these  the  voices  of  the  past, 
That  far-off,  dim,  mysterious  time, 

That  through  life's  corridors  so  vast 
Sweep  onward  with  a  march  sublime  ? 

Perchance  these  sobbing,  sighing  tones 

Are  but  the  echoes  of  the  gale 
Whose  fearful  swell  and  piteous  moans 

Made  stout  hearts  faint  and  cheeks  grow  pale. 

211 


212  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Or  is  this  wildly  wailing  sound 

The  voice  of  many  myriad  dead, 
Who,  sinking  in  the  depths  profound, 

Found  sepulcher  on  ocean  bed  ? 

Art  silent  still  ?     O  sounding  sea, 

Speak  to  this  wondering  heart  of  mine, 

And  tell  me  whence  this  voice  may  be, 
If  the  dread  secret  may  be  thine.  — 

"  O  dull  of  ear,  devoid  of  skill 

To  catch  the  meaning  of  the  strain,    . 

'T  is  His  own  voice  whose  accents  fill 
Eternal  space,  His  wide  domain. 

"  Nor  yet  in  me  is  heard  alone 

That  voice  divine  :  its  glories  thrill 

And  murmur  in  each  undertone 
Of  sighing  breeze  and  tuneful  rill." 

The  Edge  of  the  Woods. 

JETHRO   C    CULMER. 

HERE  clover  blooms  and  is  the  brown  bee's  theme 
A  little  brook  slips  down  from  its  high  well, 
Tinkles  upon  the  ripple  like  a  bell, 
And  fails  among  the  rushes  like  a  dream. 
The  wilds  are  soft  with  many  a  misty  gleam  — 
Some  near  vine  sheds  its  fragrance,  and  a  spell 
Of  hidden  song  falls  ceaselessly,  to  quell 
Morrows  and  yesterdays  and  thoughts  extreme. 

'T  is  good  to  be  with  mother  earth  apart  — 
To  lie  in  her  warm  lap  and  hush  my  cry, 


THE   RED   BIRD  IN   WINTER.  213 

Seeing  the  rosebuds  into  color  start  — 

To  listen  to  her  gentle  lullaby 

Of  lowly  things,  and  soothe  my  anxious  heart 

When  its  wild  longings  push  against  the  sky. 

In   September. 

JETHRO   C.    CULMER. 

NOW  sunburned  Autumn  comes  among  the  hills, 
Flouting  the  green  conventions.    She  is  strong  — 
The  sumac  reddens  as  she  comes  along, 
And  the  wan  marsh  with  fire  of  gold  she  fills. 
The  sun  makes  haste,  and  undue  heat  he  spills 
Into  the  noon,  and  lank  grasshoppers  throng 
The  rusty  steeps.     The  locust  sings  his  song 
With  growing  stress  —  I  know  not  what  he  wills. 

From  lowland  corn  fields,  standing  stark  and  pale, 
With  tattered  shadows  carpeting  their  ways, 

I  hear  at  intervals  a  lonely  quail 

Who  makes  his  meaning  clear  in  simple  phrase  — 

He  listens  where  the  morning  glories  trail, 

And  calls  amain  throughout  the  startled  maize. 

The  Red   Bird  in  Winter. 

JETHRO    C    CULMER. 

WHEN  wintry  woods  are  silent  with  the  cold 
And  all  the  paths  are  deep  with  dazzling  grit, 
Some  gracious  mood  of  Fortune  may  permit 
A  weary-eyed  snow-gazer  to  behold 


214  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  vivid  red  bird.  He  is  blithe  and  bold, 
Haunting  the  dreary  elm  tops,  he  will  sit 
Beside  the  dark  green  mistletoe,  or  flit 

In  ruddy  flame  athwart  the  frozen  wold. 

Some  morning,  when  the  glory  of  the  sun 
Falls  upon  groves  of  crystal,  he  will  sing 
A  paean  of  the  universe,  so  fit 
That  all  the  shadowy  purlieus  shall  be  won 
And  dreams  be  born  of  fair  realms,  widening 
From  mortal  coigne  to  verges  infinite. 


Evening  Song. 

MRS.    IDA    MAY   DAVIS. 

FAREWELL,  sweet  day  ; 
Thy  thoughts  and  mine  in  perfect  tune 
And  rhyme  have  blent  this  day  of  June ; 

And  ere  the  rapture  of  thy  spell 
Dissolves,  I  turn  to  thee  and  say, 
Sweet  day,  farewell. 

Farewell,  sweet  day ; 

For  I  would  rather  part  from  thee 
With  every  chord  in  harmony 

Than  meet  thee  in  the  cold,  gray  light 
Of  morrow's  morn.     Thus,  glad  I  say, 

Sweet  day,  good  night. 


GARFIELD   AND   LINCOLN.  21 5 

Affirmation. 


ORPHEUS   EVERTS. 


SEE  how  the  sunlight  down  the  sloping  side 
Of  yonder  mountain,  chased  by  flying  shades, 
Ripples  and  leaps  like  a  receding  tide, 

Till  lost  below  in  shadows !     'T  is  thus  fades 
The  light  of  earth.     But  far  above  the  glades 
Of  earth  expands  high  heaven  —  and  see  !  swift  light 

Already  climbs  the  archways  of  the  skies, 
And  conscious  clouds  are  blushing,  glorified, 
Transfigured  by  its  touch  !     Soon  will  arise 
The  full-orbed  moon,  and  many  a  star  beside  : 
Bright  beacons  in  the  wide  expanse  of  night, 
Serene  and  beautiful !     O  heart !   O  eyes  !  — 
Through  which  my  soul  now  sees  —  no  light  that's  born 
e'er  dies. 


Garfield  and  Lincoln. 

ORPHEUS   EVERTS. 

A  NATION  mourns  !    Its  sorrowing  flag  is  furled  ! 
Nor  faith,  nor  hope,  nor  love  could  save  from  death, 
Nor  tears,  nor  prayers,  prolong  the  vital  breath 
Of  him  — the  foremost  man  of  all  the  world  ! 
Why  should  death's  shafts  at  such  a  mark  be  hurled  ? 
Inscrutable  thy  ways,  O  Providence  ! 
And  high  above  man's  plane  of  grov'ling  sense 
Where  mortals  crawl  and  question  God's  intent. 


2l6  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  still  "  God  rules,"  and  still  "  the  Government 
Lives  on,"  —  as  when  in  yonder  Capitol 

Aforetime  lay  a  murdered  President. 

Garfield  and  Lincoln  !  —  names  forever  blent ! 
The  brightest  blazoned  on  Columbia's  scroll, 

Where  "  Washington  "  still  glows  with  luster  permanent. 

Inspiration. 

ELIZABETH   E.   FOULKE. 

A  THOUGHT  has  fallen  from  the  skies  ; 
Dim,  saintly  pure,  above  the  throng 
That  toils  unheeded  'mid  earth's  wrong, 
It  floats,  unseen  of  mortal  eyes, 
Beyond  our  yearnings  and  our  cries, 
A  wraith  that  would  embody  song, 
Or  glow  in  beauty  rare  and  strong, 
If  cast  in  other  guise. 
Oh,  thou  of  spirit  grand  and  free, 
Whose  glance  can  pierce  the  blue, 
Reveal  the  heavenly  mystery, 
For  God's  own  thoughts  that  pulsate  through 
Infinitudes  of  azure  sea, 
Were  powerless  all,  except  for  thee. 


Easter  Hymn. 


ELIZABETH   E.   FOULKE. 


L 


I  LIES  that  bloom  for  the  Easter  Day, 
Soul  of  a  plant  from  the  miry  clay  ; 


A   SONNET.  217 

"  Look,  little  child,"  they  seem  to  say, 
"Your  spirit  shall  bloom  in  some  such  way." 

They  take  their  strength  from  the  darksome  mold  ; 
Their  dream  of  hope  from  the  sunlight's  gold. 
Within  the  heart  of  the  lily's  shrine 
Was  hid  the  plan  of  a  flower  divine. 

Far  in  the  distance  of  olden  days 
Lived  One  who  moved  in  the  earthly  ways ; 
Yet  staunch  was  He,  and  as  pure  as  these,  — 
The  stately  lilies  that  stem  the  breeze. 

And  when,  on  an  Easter  long  ago, 

He  rose  from  the  things  of  earth  below, 

As  a  plant  that  in  the  soil  had  striven, 

His  soul  bloomed  free  in  the  light  of  heaven. 


*&' 


And  so  may  any  whose  lifted  face 
Sees  still  the  radiance  of  His  grace  ; 
Who  carries  hid  in  his  earthly  shrine 
A  faithful  image  of  One  Divine. 

A  Sonnet. 

EDWIN    S.    HOPKINS. 

ALONG  the  fields  that  shimmer  in  the  glare 
Of  noontide  silence,  lulled  by  droning  bees, 
The  quivering  aspens  doze  among  the  trees, 
And  in  the  meadows,  sunburnt,  brown,  and  bare, 


2l8  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Swept  by  the  reaper's  polished  scimiter, 
In  shrill  delight  the  loud  grasshoppers  tease 
With  jangling  notes  the  grotesque  cicadas 
Whose  drowsy  cadence  soothes  the  sultry  air. 
Urged  idly  onward  by  the  frequent  goad, 
The  panting  yoke  with  tardy  languor  leaves 
The  dry,  hot  stubble  for  the  dusty  road, 
And  half-asleep,  with  clumsy  patience  heaves 
From  side  to  side  the  shrilly  creaking  load 
Of  summer  sunshine  bound  in  golden  sheaves. 


Grant. 

BENJAMIN   DAVENPORT   HOUSE. 
"  Let  us  have  peace  !  " 

O  MIGHTY  captain  !     Thou  whose  name  will  go 
Adown  the  ages  while  the  years  shall  run, 
And  blazoned  be  the  deeds  that  thou  hast  done 
While  fronting  iron-nerved  thy  country's  foe, 
Sun-bright  with  ever  golden  glow, — 

Oh,  savior !  who  from  war's  red  furnace  won 
Unscorched,  the  flag  bequeathed  by  Washington,  — 
Thou  hast  a  nation's  love  that  passeth  show. 

O  folded  hands,  that  held  war's   bridle  reins ! 

O  tired  heart !  thou  hast  at  last  release 
From  all  earth's  fret  and  sense-enslaving  pains. 

Let  every  sound  of  mournful  wailing  cease 
For  thy  white  tent  is  pitched  on  restful  plains, 

Where  thou  hast  found  at  length  the  longed-for  peace. 


REVEALMENT.  219 

Were  it  but  True. 

BENJAMIN  DAVENPORT   HOUSE. 

AH  !  were  the  legend  of  Pygmalion  true, 
I  think  my  hand  would  clench  the  chisel  so 
That  all  my  soul  would  to  my  fingers  flow, 
Till  they  would  bring  my  inmost  thoughts  to  view, 
As  I  should  from  the  shapeless  marble  hew 

A  form  that,  like  your  own,  should  surely  grow 
So  true,  that  'neath  my  carving  hand  would  show 
My  soul's  ideal  —  the  counterpart  of  you. 

And  not  as  stone  should  there  unbreathing;  lie 

A  soulless  shape  wrought  by  the  sculptor's  knife ; 

For  I  would  voice  my  soul  with  such  a  cry 

That  it  should  hear  and  rise,  my  breathing  wife, 

Breaking  its  sleep  with  love's  awaking  sigh, 
When  I  had  loved  it  into  pulsing  life. 

Revealment. 

BENJAMIN   DAVENPORT   HOUSE. 

ONE  day  when  winter  all  the  landscape  drest, 
Within  a  barn's  half-twilight  gloom  I  heard 
A  chirp  of  summer  sound,  as  though  some  bird, 
More  than  a  mere  fairweather  staying  guest, 
Had  dared  the  north  wind's  cold  anear  the  nest, 
Where  late  its  heart  to  happy  song  was  stirred, 
And  past  my  gaze  a  frightened  robin  whirred, 
The  tint  of  summer  sunsets  on  its  breast. 


I 


2  20  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  all  the  mows  were  wind-waved  grass  again, 
And  humming,  honey-hunting  bees  were  fed 

Where  bobolinks  sing  o'er  their  mad  refrain, 
In  fields  where  clover's  sweet  perfume  is  shed ; 

And  glowed  again  the  ripened,  golden  grain, 
Through  that  one  little  spot  of  summer's  red. 


An   Irish   Love  Song. 

ROBERT    UNDERWOOD   JOHNSON. 

{from   a  Songs  of  Liberty"  T/ie  Century  Co.) 

N  the  years  about  twenty 
(When  kisses  were  plenty) 
The  love  of  an  Irish  lass  fell  to  my  fate  — 
So  winsome  and  sightly, 
So  saucy  and  sprightly, 
The  priest  was  a  prophet  that  christened  her  Kate. 

Soft  gray  of  the  dawning, 

Bright  blue  of  the  morning, 
The  sweet  of  her  eye  there  was  nothing  to  mate ; 

A  nose  like  a  fairy's, 

A  cheek  like  a  cherry's, 
And  a  smile  —  well,  her  smile  was  like  —  nothing  but  Kate. 

To  see  her  was  passion, 

To  love  her,  the  fashion ; 
What  wonder  my  heart  was  unwilling  to  wait ! 

And,  daring  to  love  her, 

I  soon  did  discover 
A  Katharine  masking  in  mischievous  Kate. 


TO   .  221 

No  Katie  unruly, 

But  Katharine,  truly  — - 
Fond,  serious,  patient,  and  even  sedate ; 

With  a  glow  in  her  gladness 

That  banishes  sadness  — 
Yet  stay  !     Should  I  credit  the  sunshine  to  Kate  ? 

Love  cannot  outlive  it, 

Wealth  cannot  o'ergive  it  — 
That  saucy  surrender  she  made  at  the  gate. 

Oh,  Time,  be  but  human, 

Spare  the  girl  in  the  woman  ! 
You  gave  me  my  Katharine  —  leave  me  my  Kate ! 


To 


WM.    W.    H.    McCURDY. 

IF  I  to-morrow  should  be  lying  dead, 
My  toils  all  ended  and  my  journey  sped, 
And  thou  should'st  come  with  tearful  eyes  to  trace 
Life's  last  emotions  in  my  tranquil  face, 
Thou  could'st  not  fail  to  find  deep  graven  there 
The  patent  record  of  a  long  despair, 
'Gainst  which  through  all  the  weary  years  I  strove, 
Since  lost  the  priceless  blessing  of  thy  love. 
If  deeper  still  thy  subtle  glance  should  dart 
And  win  the  secret  written  on  my  heart, 
Then  should'st  thou  know,  by  that  memorial  taught, 
To  thee,  alone,  I  gave  my  dying  thought; 


222  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

And  that  the  love  for  thee  on  earth  I  bore 
Survives,  immortal,  on  the  eternal  shore. 


A  Sonnet. 

FREEMAN   E.    MILLER. 

THE  sweetest  lilies,  with  their  lips  of  snow, 
Are  born  in  sunless  valleys  where  the  maze 
Of  backward  nature  lingers  and  the  woe 

Of  wastes  deserted  rules  the  lonely  ways ; 
The  fairest  roses  of  the  summer  throw 

Their  dainty  fragrance  on  the  balmy  days, 
Where  dismal  forests  weave  their  tangled  sprays 

And  shadows  dark  are  dancing  to  and  fro ; 
So  in  the  hearts  where  deepest  sorrows  sleep, 

The  fondest  dreams  of  human  hope  abound, 
And  from  the  souls  of  wildest  anguish  creep 

The  highest  yearnings  that  with  men  are  found, 
While  lives,  that  mourn  in  sadness  most,  are  crowned 

With  kindest  words  for  weary  ones  that  weep. 


Wherefore  ? 

DANIEL   L.    PAINE. 

ARE  not  five  sparrows  for  two  farthings  sold  ? 
Do  not  our  hairs  grow  white  and  fall  away  ? 
Yet  every  hair  and  sparrow,  we  are  told, 
Is  numbered  and  is  noticed  day  by  day. 


FRAGRANCE.  223 

Wherefore,  if  still  they  fall  and  still  turn  gray  ? 

If  songs  be  hushed  and  heart  and  brain  grow  cold? 
If  blight  and  darkness  follow  bloom  and  day, 

And  summer's  greenness  fade  in  winter's  cold  ? 
What  is  the  notice  to  the  sparrow  dead  ? 
What  is  the  numbering  of  the  gray  hairs  gone  ? 

Shall  sparrows  live  again  ?    Shall  bright  locks  burn 
Again  in  golden  glory  round  the  head  ? 

What  to  the  numbered  if  they  still  fall  on  ? 

What  to  the  numberer  if  they  ne'er  return  ? 


Fragrance. 

BENJAMIN    S.    PARKER. 

A   THRILL  of  something  seeming  half  divine, 
Ethereal  essence,  like  the  perfect  thought 
The  poet  knows  of,  but  can  ne'er  design 

A  web  of  words  wherein  it  may  be  caught ;  — 
Intangible,  and  yet  pervading  all, 

Bathing  the  senses  in  a  nameless  joy ; 
A  globe  of  ecstasy  that  in  its  fall 

From  some  remoter  world,  the  rosy  boy 
Has  caught  and  blown  to  us,  in  viewless  spray, 

To  waft  us  gently  to  the  dreamy  shore 
Whereon  the  roguish  archer  beareth  sway ; 

And  when  't  is  sweetest  still  we  yearn  for  more, 
E'en  while  the  rhythmic  pulses  flow  along 

The  happiest  staves  of  summer's  odor  song. 


224  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

Midnight    Song   of  the    Mocking    Bird. 

ROBERT   E.    PRETLOW. 

SWEET  !     Mate  !     List  to  my  call, 
While  on  the  topmost  of  boughs  I  am  swaying. 
"  Love  reigns,  lord  over  all," 

Softly  the  night  winds  are  saying. 
Hushed  are  the  voices  that  burdened  the  day, 

Man  is  no  longer  his  labor  pursuing, 
Mine,  mine  alone  is  the  moon's  tender  ray, 
Sweetest  of  seasons  for  wooing. 

Wake  !     Wake  !     My  darling,  I  sing  to  thee 

Under  the  moonlight  alone  and  apart. 
List !     List !     O  dear  one,  I  bring  to  thee 

All  of  the  love  of  my  heart. 
Out  from  my  tree  top  I  see  the  moon  shining 

Down  on  the  river  all  burnished  like  steel. 
Dimples  the  water  as  if  'twere  divining 

The  wealth  of  the  rapture  I  feel. 

Swift !     Swift !     The  river  is  flowing, 

Hurrying  onward  in  musical  glee. 
Soft !     Soft !     The  night  winds  are  blowing 

Laden  with  fragrance  for  thee. 
Fair  gleam  the  fields  lying  out  to  the  west 

Stretching  as  far  as  the  star-studded  skies. 
But  the  brown  of  the  nest,  and  the  gray  of  thy  breast, 

Are  lovelier  far  to  my  eyes. 


CALLING  THE   COWS.  225 

Swing  !     Swing !     Bright  shine  the  stars  above, 

Warm  and  secure  are  the  eggs  in  the  nest. 
Sing  !     Sing  !     How  grows  the  mother  love, 

Darling,  deep  down  in  thy  breast. 
Softly,  O  softly,  the  night  winds  are  dying, 

Dream  of  the  treasures  the  future  shall  bring. 
Dream  of  the  days  when  the  fledglings  be  flying, 

Happily  dream  as  I  sing. 

Sleep  !     Sleep  !    Soft  are  my  numbers, 

Rest  till  the  rosy  dawn  purple  the  sky. 
Sleep  !     Sleep  !     Sweet  be  thy  slumbers, 

Rest  till  the  morning  is  nigh. 
Gently  blow,  softly  flow,  night  wind  and  river, 

Sing  a  low  lullaby  song  to  my  love. 
Sing  while  the  dewy  leaves  over  her  quiver, 

Softly  play  till  the  day  shineth  above. 

Calling  the   Cows. 

HERMAN    RAVE. 

I   DON'T  know  why,  I  don't  know  how, 
But  surely,  't  was  no  harm  at  all 
To  stop  a  minute  from  the  plow 
And  listen  to  her  milking  call : 
"Co  — Boss  — co  !" 
It  sounded  so 
Across  the  yellow-tasseled  corn! 
Surely  the  man  was  never  born 
Who  would  not  leave  his  team  and  come 
To  help  her  drive  her  cattle  home. 


226        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

The  old  folk  lived  across  the  hill, 
But  surely  't  was  no  harm  at  all 
To  kiss  her,  while  the  fields  were  still, 
A-list'ning  to  her  milking  call : 

"Co  —  Boss—  co !" 

It  sounded  so, 
It  made  the  tardy  robin  start, 
The  squirrel  bend  the  leaves  apart 
To  see  us  two  a-walking  down 
Toward  the  sleepy  little  town. 

I  don't  know  how,  I  don't  know  why, 

But  surely  't  was  no  harm  at  all : 
The  stars  were  in  the  summer  sky 
Before  the  cattle  reached  their  stall. 

"Co  — Boss  — co  !" 

It  rings  on  so. 
The  moon,  from  off  her  great  white  shield, 
Has  tossed  her  light  into  the  field, 
And  still  the  whisp'ring  echoes  come 
And  follow  us  a-walking  home. 


A   Country   Scene. 

ALONZO    RICE. 

ALTHOUGH  the  summer  colors  yet  prevail, 
There  are  forebodings  of  the  winter's  clime 
In  bracing  winds  that  blow.     A  pearly  rime 
Has  set  its  signature  on  post  and  rail, 


TO   JUNE.  227 

And  there  the  milkmaid,  with  her  shining  pail, 

Has  brushed  the  frost  away  in  morning's  prime ; 

On  steel-blue  wings,  with  eyes  intent  on  crime, 
A  hawk  through  tangled  brush  pursues  the  quail. 

The  children  to  the  district  schoolhouse  fare, 
And  linger  where  the  grapes  and  haws  invite ; 

Exploring  boys,  all  swarthy-handed,  bear 
The  walnut's  tribute  from  the  windy  height, 

While  red  sunbonnets  that  the  maidens  wear 
Seem  tiny  fires  the  chilly  fairies  light. 


To  June. 

RENOS   H.    RICHARDS. 

FAIR  June  !  Who  loves  her  not,  sweet  summer  child  ? 
Of  all  the  joys  that  close  attend  her  train, 
Who  hopes  not  for  himself  some  may  remain  ? 
At  her  advance  the  sun  his  welcome  smiled 
Across  the  misty  morning.     And  the  mild 

Wind  waked  the  sleeping  birds,  whose  glad  refrain 
Proclaimed  her  coming  o'er  the  waiting  plain  — 
So  loved  is  she,  fair,  sunny,  summer  child. 

Oft  have  I  seen  her,  standing  'midst  the  wheat, 
With  hair  as  golden  as  the  billowy  grain  ; 

Or  chasing  butterflies  with  winged  feet 

That  touched  the  noon-hot  earth  with  light  disdain, 

To  the  clear,  quiet  pool  adown  the  dell 

Wherein  she  gazed  till  evening  shadows  fell. 


228  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Pan. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB   RILEY. 

(By  permission  of  The  Boiven-Merrill  Co.) 

THIS  Pan  is  but  an  idle  god,  I  guess, 
Since  all  the  fair  midsummer  of  my  dreams 

He  loiters  listlessly  by  wooded  streams, 
Soaking  the  lush  glooms  up  in  laziness ; 
Or  drowsing  while  the  maiden-winds  caress 

Him  prankishly,  and  powder  him  with  gleams 

Of  sifted  sunshine.     And  he  ever  seems 
Drugged  with  a  joy  unutterable  —  unless 

His  low  pipes  whistle  hints  of  it  far  out 
Across  the  ripples  to  the  dragon  fly 

That,  like  a  wind-born  blossom  blown  about, 
Drops  quiveringly  down,  as  though  to  die  — 

Then  lifts  and  wavers  on,  as  if  in  doubt 

Whether  to  fan  his  wings  or  fly  without. 


Genius. 

OLIVE   SANXAY. 

ONCE,  following  his  whim,  an  artist  soul, 
Disdaining  camp  and  court  and  mart  and  gown, 
And  drear  monotony  of  schools,  flung  down 
His  book  and  pen,  and  with  elation  stole 


HEART   SONG.  229 

Out  from  the  beaten  way.     Without  control 

He  dipped  from  passionate  Life's  most  gorgeous  hues 
To  paint  his  impulse  bright  beyond  excuse. 

And  following  his  whim,  a  sacred  whole 

Of  human  tragedy  upon  his  canvas  pale 

He  wrought  with  such  fine  skill  where  others  fail, 
That  Fame  reached  down  a  loving  hand  and  smiled. 
So,  following  his  whim,  with  fancy  wild, 

When  Death  stretched  forth  her  hand,  so  cold,  so  dim, 

He  found  a  felon's  grave  awaiting  him. 


Heart  Song. 

EVALEEN   STEIN. 

(By  permission  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.) 

AS  one  who  holds  a  charmed  witch-hazel  rod, 
And,  as  it  veers,  divines  the  hidden  springs, 
Whose  whispered  chimes  and  muffled  murmurings 
Had  passed  unheeded  underneath  the  sod, 
And  as  that  spot  where  careless  footsteps  trod 
Then  sparkles  into  silver  speech  and  sings 
A  liquid  song  that  wakes  to  bourgeonings 
The  seeds  embedded  in  the  barren  clod, 
So,  dearest  heart,  within  my  breast  have  you 
Pierced  to  the  hidden  melodies,  and  freed 
Its  singing  springs,  and  touched  the  buried  seed 
Of  strange,  bright  buds  whereof  I  never  knew  : 
Sweet  beyond  words,  and  of  such  subtle  power, 
It  seems  my  whole  life  breaking  into  flower. 


230  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Nirvana. 

HOWARD   S.    TAYLOR. 

CROSS-LEGGED,  with  his  hands  upon  his  knees, 
With  downcast  gaze,  heedless  of  change  or  chance, 
He  sits  like  Brahma  turning  dissonance 
Into  strange  tunes  of  dreamy  peace  and  ease. 
War,  flood,  and  fire,  earthquakes  and  stormy  seas, 
Each  three  thereof  and  tragic  circumstance 
Are  to  his  vision  but  as  motes  that  dance 
Along  the  sunbeams  sifting  through  the  trees. 
He  knows  there  is  no  death  —  but  endless  birth 
Moving  aloft  through  spiral  lifts  of  life 
To  final  mergence  in  the  Uncreate : 
Wherefore,  too  light  of  heart  for  idle  mirth, 
He  shuts  his  soul  to  every  sound  of  strife, 
And  sits  serene  like  Brahma,  pleased  to  wait. 


The  Wabash. 

MAURICE   THOMPSON. 

{By  pertnission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  6°  Co.") 

THERE  is  a  river  singing  in  between 
Bright  fringes  of  pawpaw  and  sycamore, 
That  stir  to  fragrant  winds  on  either  shore, 
Where  tall  blue  herons  stretch  lithe  necks,  and  lean 
Over  clear  currents  flowing  cool  and  thin, 

Through  the  clean  furrows  of  the  pebbly  floor. 


THE   SONGS   WE   SING.  23 1 

My  own  glad  river,  though  unclassic,  still 
Haunted  of  merry  gods,  whose  pipings  fill 

With  music  all  thy  golden  willow-brakes ! 
Above  thee  halcyon  lifts  his  regal  crest ; 

The  tulip-tree  flings  thee  its  flower-flakes; 

The  tall  flag  over  thee  its  lances  shakes ; 
With  every  charm  of  beauty  thou  art  blest, 
O  happiest  river  of  the  happy  West ! 


The  Songs  we  Sing. 

MRS.    OLLAH   TOPH. 

I  HEAR  the  children  singing  at  their  play, 
With  lisping  word  and  broken  measure  where 
The  fitful  childish  mem'ry  slips.     And  there 
Is  music  in  it  all.     No  other  way 
Were  half  so  sweet,  for  underneath  the  lay 
Of  vague  suggestion  runs  the  perfect  air 
They  mean  to  sing.    So  our  poor  songs  may  bear 
Beneath  their  harsh  discords  and  breaks,  each  day, 
To  God,  some  harmony  His  angels  lean 

To  hear.     And  He,  our  Father,  understands, 
And  binds  the  fragments  up  with  tender  hands, 
Hearing,  the  while,  the  melody  between. 
But  oh,  among  the  broken  tones  we  bring, 
Sobs  on  the  soul  of  songs  we  mean  to  sing ! 


232  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Song. 

GENERAL   LEW  WALLACE. 

{By permission,  from  "  Ben  Hur,""  published  by  Harper  <Sr»  Brothers^) 

WAKE  not,  but  hear  me,  love ! 
Adrift,  adrift  on  slumber's  sea, 
Thy  spirit  call  to  list  to  me. 
Wake  not,  but  hear  me,  love ! 

A  gift  from  Sleep,  the  restful  king, 
All  happy,  happy  dreams  I  bring. 

Wake  not,  but  hear  me,  love ! 

Of  all  the  world  of  dreams  'tis  thine 
This  once  to  choose  the  most  divine. 

So  choose,  and  sleep,  my  love ! 
But  ne'er  again  in  choice  be  free 
Unless,  unless — thou  dream'st  of  me. 

Kapila. 

GENERAL   LEW   WALLACE. 

{By  permission,  from  "  Ben-Hur"  published  by  Harper  &-»  Brothers.) 

KAPILA,  Kapila,  so  young  and  true, 
I  yearn  for  a  glory  like  thine. 
And  hail  thee  from  battle  to  ask  anew, 
Can  ever  thy  valor  be  mine  ? 


MY   SONG.  233 

Kapila  sat  on  his  charger  dun, 

A  hero  never  so  grave  ; 
"  Who  loveth  all  things,  hath  fear  of  none. 

'T  is  love  that  maketh  me  brave. 
A  woman  gave  me  her  soul  one  day, 
The  soul  of  my  soul  to  be  alway  ; 

Thence  came  my  valor  to  me, 

Go  try  it  —  try  it — and  see." 

Kapila,  Kapila,  so  old  and  gray, 

The  queen  is  calling  for  me, 
But  ere  I  go  hence,  I  wish  thou  wouldst  say, 

How  wisdom  first  came  to  thee. 

Kapila  stood  in  his  temple  door, 

A  priest  in  eremite  guise ; 
"  It  did  not  come  as  men  get  their  lore. 

'T  is  faith  that  maketh  me  wise. 
A  woman  gave  me  her  heart  one  day 
The  heart  of  my  heart  to  be  alway ; 

Thence  came  my  wisdom  to  me, 

Go  try  it  —  try  it  —  and  see." 


My  Song. 

MRS.    SUSAN   E.    WALLACE. 

WE  lay  in  camp  five  dreary  months, 
When  the  war  was  at  its  worst ; 
No  change  from  weary  week  to  week, 
The  land  was  all  accurst ; 


234  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Our  flag  was  down,  and  wet  with  blood, 

Its  stars  hung  dim  at  even ; 
'T  was  after  Fredericksburg,  and  peace 

Seemed  further  off  than  heaven. 

One  winter  day  a  wandering  bird 

Perched  on  our  cheerless  tent ; 
And  sang  in  timid,  brooding  notes 

When  evening  light  was  spent. 
The  idle  soldiers  stopped  their  games, 

And  gazed  as  in  a  spell ; 
A  tender  look  stole  in  the  face 

Of  our  sullen  sentinel. 

My  homesick  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 

'T  was  like  a  joyful  psalm  ; 
Upon  my  bruised  and  bleeding  heart 

The  music  fell  as  balm. 
A  transient  lay  —  the  bird  flew  on  — 

Yet  in  that  passing  strain, 
A  hundred  songs  of  love  and  peace 

Mingled  in  glad  refrain. 

And  Hope  came  back  with  healing  wing ; 

Death's  shadow  turned  to  day ; 
From  out  my  heart  that  melody 

Has  never  died  away. 
And  so,  it  may  be,  whisperings 

That  shape  uncertain  lays 
May  pass  into  some  sorrowing  soul, 

And  murmur  change  to  praise. 


UNUTTERED   POEMS.  235 

Perchance  a  weary  march  be  cheered 

With  sound  of  rhyming  words, 
Or  children's  voices  make  them  sweet 

As  songs  of  summer  birds, 
For  this  I  sing,  not  hope  of  fame ; 

Far  is  the  enchanted  gate 
Whose  golden  hinges  music  turns 

When  bay-crowned  singers  wait. 

From  happy  heights  I  dimly  see  ; 

Their  symphonies  I  hear, 
They  faint  like  far-off  bugle  notes 

Upon  my  eager  ear, 
And  never  breathe  the  magic  words 

That  move  the  bar  so  strong ; 
Yet  will  I  sing  and  dream  some  life 

Is  sweeter  for  my  song. 


Unuttered   Poems. 

W.    DEWITT  WALLACE. 

TO  all,  at  times,  sweet  fancy  lendeth  wings  : 
To  some,  strong  pinions,  brilliant-hued  and  swift, 
To  others,  feeble  ones  that  labor  when  they  lift ; 
Sometimes,  upleaping  like  a  lark,  there  springs 
Within  each  soul  a  joy  that  soars  and  sings. 
Sometimes  by  sorrow's  hand  each  heart  is  rift, 
A  dol'rous  note  through  all  its  being  rings. 
Then  blame  not  him  who  strives  to  breathe  his  thought 
In  passion's  language,  or  in  fancy's  tongue : 


236  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Immortal  song  had  oftentimes  been  wrought 
If  all  could  utter  what  their  souls  have  sung. 
Ah,  yes !  in  each  a  poem  sighs  for  birth, 
Who  plucks  it  forth  an  angel  gives  to  earth. 

A    Harvest    Song. 

LOUISA   WICKERSHAM. 

AWAKE,  awake  !  there  is  joy  to-day  : 
The  harvest  has  come,  and  the  ripened  field 
Shall  its  golden  sheaves  to  the  reapers  yield, 

As  the  sickle  keen  cuts  its  gleaming  way 
Through  the  serried  ranks  of  the  standing  wheat, 
In  the  noon-tide  sun  and  the  glowing  heat 
And  the  breezes  soft,  of  the  summer  day. 

Awake,  awake  !  there  is  joy  to-day  : 
The  harvest  has  come,  and  the  winnowed  wheat 
Shall  fall  in  showers  at  the  good  man's  feet, 

As  it  rattles  down  on  its  shining  way 
To  be  gathered  up  'mid  the  merry  din, 
And  carried  away  to  the  farmer's  bin 

By  the  harvest  men,  on  this  summer  day. 

Awake,  awake  !  there  is  joy  to-day  : 
The  autumn  has  come ;  the  nut-laden  trees 

Shall  yield  their  store  at  the  call  of  the  breeze, 

And  the  merry  lads  and  the  maidens  gay 
Shall  shout  with  glee  as  they  hurry  'round, 
To  gather  the  nuts  from  the  leaf-strewed  ground, 

In  the  frosty  dawn  of  the  autumn  day. 


GEN.   LEW   WALLACE. 


A   HARVEST   SONG.  237 

Awake,  awake  !  there  is  joy  to-day  : 
The  autumn  has  come,  and  the  orchards  wide, 
The  farmer's  joy  and  the  farmer's  pride, 

Shall  his  hopes  and  his  labors  now  repay  : 
And  the  golden  fruit  of  apple  and  pear, 
Whose  fragrance  is  filling  the  balmy  air, 

Shall  gladden  the  home  through  the  winter  day. 

Awake,  awake  !  there  is  joy  to-day  : 
Though  the  summer  is  gone,  the  harvest  past, 
Though  the  forests  shake  in  the  wintry  blast, 

And  the  earth  lies  wrapped  in  a  cloak  of  gray ; 
Yet  the  troubled  soul  may  repose  in  peace, 
For  seed-time  and  harvest  will  never  cease  ; 

The  promise  is  true  —  there  is  joy  alway. 


IN    DIALECT. 


Some   Way  or   'Nother. 

G.    HENRI    BOGART. 

SAY,  pard,  that  fellar  over  thar 
Is  really  glad  he's  livin'  — 
Jist  a  wood-sawyer,  but  to  care 
The  go-by  he  has  given, 
For  if  from  pain,  or  if  from  sorrow, 
A  spark  to  warm  his  heart  he'll  borrow 
In  some  way  or  'nother. 

One  winter  he'd  rheumatics  bad, 

An'  couldn't  go  out  sawin', 
An'  grub  was  scarce,  but  he  kep'  glad, 

An'  laughed  instid  o'  jawin'  — 

"It  keeps  me  in  from  this  rough  weather; 

We'll  pull  through,  if  we  pull  together, 
In  some  way  or  'nother." 

An'  w'en  his  only  baby,  Grace, 
Tuk  sick,  an'  laid  thar  dyin', 
He  rubbed  his  rough  hand  crost  his  face, 
An'  said  right  through  his  cry  in', 
"  My  baby's  missin'  heaps  of  sorrow ; 
I  guess  we'll  meet  ag'in  to-morrow 
In  some  way  or  'nother." 
241 


242  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

He's  got  a  helpful  word  an'  look 
Fer  every  thing  an'  person  ; 

His  glad  thoughts  find  a  restin'  nook, 
His  black  ones  git  scant  nursin' ; 
The  world's  the  better  fer  his  livin', 
Fer  happiness  he's  always  givin' 
In  some  way  or  'nother. 


Autumn. 

NOAH   J.    CLODFELTER. 

THE  frost  hae  stripped  the  forest  bare 
An'  strewed  the  earth  wi'  leaves, 
An'  ilka  thing  seems  bow'd  wi'  care 

That  trembles  in  the  breeze. 
The  fie'ls  a'  powdered  o'er  wi'  frost 

Which  mak's  them  look  sae  drear, 
As  Nature's  verdant  tints  are  lost 
In  sallow,  brown  an'  sere. 

The  forest's  feathered  tenants  flee 

To  some  mair  temp'rate  clime, 
Where  plenty  smiles  to  glad  the  ee, 

An'  Phoebus  reigns  sublime. 
But  O  !  how  sad  the  woodlands  seem, 

When  a'  is  hushed  an'  still, 
Except  the  wailin'  win's  that  scream 

Wi'  echoes  loud  an'  shrill. 


AUTUMN.  243 

The  relique  o'  the  verdant  year 

Lies  in  its  rus'ling  bed, 
An'  ilka  soun  o'  summer  cheer 

Is  silent  as  the  dead, 
An'  we  are  left  to  stem  the  blast 

O'  desolation  wild,  ''"' 
Till  a'  the  winter  months  hae  passed, 

An'  Spring  hae  on  us  smil'd. 

Yet  Autumn  dressed  in  a'  her  gond 

Is  beautiful  to  see, 
When  Ceres  walketh,  pleased  an'  proud, 

Wi'  harvests  ripe  an'  free ; 
An'  when  its  gleam  hae  passed  away, 

There's  plenty  smilin'  roun', 
To  cheer  us  through  the  dreary  day 

An'  mak'  o'or  sleep  mair  soun'. 

We,  longin',  wait  the  comin'  spring 

To  gladden  heart  an'  ee, 
When  Nature  spreads  her  verdant  wing 

On  ilka  branch  an'  tree. 
When  matin'  warblers  a'  return 

To  greet  the  vernal  morn, 
An'  sun-kissed  ice-drops  gently  turn 

To  amber  on  the  thorn. 

An'  if  nae  mair  the  summer  suns 

Shall  glad  my  heart  an'  ee, 
May  plenty  greet  my  cherished  ones, 

An'  peace  repose  wi'  me. 


244  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

An'  o'er  my  narrow  hous'  o'  groun', 

Let  angry  winters  rave, 
If,  only,  when  the  spring  comes  roun', 

The  flowers  bloom  on  my  grave. 


The  Heavy-sot  Man. 

{By  the  Slim-like  Man.) 

RICHARD    LEW    DAWSON. 

I  BEN  a-thinkun  over,  fur's  I  kin  understan', 
The  things  'at  makes  me  woosht  I  wos  a  heavy-sot 
man, 
An'  have  'em  call  me  Fatty,  an'  laugh  at  me  an'  say, 
I  mus'  be  livun  purty  high,  an'  ast  how  much  I  weigh, 
An'  when  they  wonder  ef  I'll  run  for  Jestus  in  the  fall, 
Have  some  smart-eleck  say  'at  I'm  too  fat  to  run  at  all. 

Now,  when  it's  figgered  out,  'tain't  so  fine  as  you'd  sup- 
pose 
To  be  a  heavy-sot  man  an'  pay  more  for  yer  clothes, 
An'  tear  yer  wilted  collars  off  an'  throw   'em    in  the 

gutter, 
An'  have  yer  shirts  look  like  a  wet  rag  'round  a  roll  o' 

butter, 
An'  set  before  a  lookun  glass  to  see  to  tie  yer  shoes, 
An'  then  jist  give  it  up  an'  cuss  about  the  time  ye  lose. 

But  the  heavy-sot  man  is  jes'  a  jolly  sort  o'  feller, 
An'  ager  can't  git  holts  on  him  to  shake  'im  green  an' 
yeller ; 


OWED   TO  TURKEY.  245 

He  thinks  the  air  is  bracun  when  it's  down  to  ten  below, 
An'  breaks  the  ice  to  take  a  swim,  an'  wallers  in  the 

snow, 
An'  take  'im  up  and  down,  he's  jes'  as  broad  as  he  is 

long, 
An'  stan'  'im  on  'is  head  he'll  fiddle,  zef  they's  nothun 

wrong ! 

I  knowed  a  heavy-sot  man  'ul  knock  ye  out  forst  round, 
An'  'nothern,  he  was  president,  an'  weighed  four  hun- 
dred pound/ 
An'  'nothern  was  a  preacher  —  holler  all  yer  sins  away! 
An'  yit  —  there's  ole  Abe  Lincoln  —  he  was   slim-like, 

an'  I  lay 
He's  big  enough  for  me  !     An'  so  I  reckon  my  best  plan 
'Sto  thank  the  Lord  I'm  livun,  like  the  heavy-sot  man. 


Owed   to    Turkey. 

CHARLES   DENNIS. 

TIS  the  day  of  thanksgiving  ;  the  feast  is  spread, 
And  all  are  silent  while  grace  is  said. 
A  dozen  sit  at  the  table  there, 
Each  with  a  pleased,  expectant  air, 
And  baby  a-top  of  the  "  dictionnaire." 
There's  a  napkin  tucked  'heath  ev'ry  chin ; 
The  carving  knife  with  the  fork's  brought  in ; 
Now  Turkey's  dismemberment  will  begin. 


246  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

As  it  lies  'fore  the  folk  in  its  savory  smoke, 

'T  is  really  and  truly  cook's  master  stroke ; 

A  ruddy  brown  coat  from  its  knees  to  its  throat, 

And,  crossing  its  bosom,  four  slices  of  "  shoat  "  ; 

(Suggesting  a  drummer,  and  there,  as  them  some  fix, 

Are  carefully  folded  two  very  plump  "  drumsticks  "). 

What  emotions  are  stirred  !     It  seems  strangely  absurd 

To  attempt  to  describe  such  a  marvelous  bird. 

Not  the  Governor's  staff  in  their  gayest  and  best 

Were  ever  by  half  so  delightfully  "  dressed  "  ; 

Gran'ma  then  and  there  the  opinion  expressed, 

As  she  beamed  through  her  glasses,  and  said  in  her  best 

tone, 
"It's  a  tender  young  fowl,  as   I  know  by  the  breast 

bone." 

Oh,  oh,  the  dressing !  there  was  naught  left  to  guess- 

'T  was  mamma  herself  had  that  task  been  caressing; 

A  cupful  of  this  and  two  cupfuls  of  that  — 

For  a  yellow-skinned  turkey,  though  tender  and  fat, 

Resembles  a  wrestler  prepared  for  the  mat. 

It  may  now  be  remarked,  at  this  place  in  the  page, 

That,  as  if  to  atone  for  its  frivolous  age, 

its  last  exhalations  were  certainly  sage. 

Heart,  gizzard,  and  liver,  with  juices  a-quiver, 
And  cranberry  sauce  with  acidulous  shiver, 
Making  rose-tinted  isles  in  a  brown-gravy  river ! 


WHER'   THE   OLE   FOLKS   IS.  247 

Quick,  quick,  speed  the  knife !      Spare  the  appetite's 

strife, 
While  paterfamilias  carves  for  dear  life, 
Till  the  turkey  is  served,  every  morsel  and  speck  — 
"  Old  Tovvse  "  gets  the  bones  and  papa  gets  the  neck. 


Wher'   the  Ole   Folks  Is. 

ALFRED  ELLISON. 

'  TEVER  notice  how,  when  the  house  gits  still, 
I    An'  yer  feelin'  sad  an'  lonesome,  like  you  sometimes 
will, 
'Pears  as  ef  the  faces  uv  yer  boyhood  days 
Wus  lookin'  out  upon  you  frum  the  backlog's  blaze. 
The  flames  leap  in  a  hurry,  — jest  like  you  ust  to  do, 
When  a  neighbor  boy  would  whistle  outside  the  door 

fer  you. 
An'  you  cain't  help  sayin':  "  Tell  you  what  it  is, 
I  want  to  go  back  wher'  the  ole  folks  is." 

Ben  a  long  time,  an'  it's  ben  a  long  road, 

'At  led  me  frum  the  door  wher'  the  hollyhocks  growed,  — 

Wher'  mother  stood  an'  watched  me  when  I  started  on 

the  trip, 
With  a  sermon  in  her  eye,  an'  a  silence  on  her  lip ; 
An'  when  I  reached  the  woods  'at  would  shet  out  the 

view,    * 
I  looked  back,  an'  ther'  wus  Pap  a-stan'in'  ther'  too. 
An'  I've  said  ever'  day,  frum  that  day  to  this: 
"  I  want  to  go  back  wher'  the  ole  folks  is." 


248  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

I  want  to  go  back  wher'  the  ole  folks  is ! 

I  want  to  take  Pap  by  that  ole  hand  uv  his. 

I  want  to  see  mother,  an'  I  want  to  say  to  'er: 

"  Sing  that  ole  song  :  Save  me,  Lord,  an'  keep  me  pure." 

I  want  to  see  her  sittin'  an'  a-knittin'  in  the  shade 

Uv  the  ole  portico  'at  my  Pap  built  an'  made. 

****** 

But  they've  both  gone  to  mansions  not  built  by  hands 

uv  his. 
An'  I  want  to  go  an'  be  wher'  the  ole  folks  is. 

Bachelor's  Hall. 

(/«  Imitation  of  the  Irish.') 

JOHN   FINLEY. 

BACHELOR'S  Hall!     What  a  quare-looking  place 
it  is! 
Kape  me  from  sich  all  the  days  of  me  life ! 
Sure,  but  I  think  what  a  burnin'  disgrace  it  is, 
Niver  at  all  to  be  gettin'  a  wife. 

See  the  ould  bachelor,  gloomy  and  sad  enough, 

Placing  his  tay-kittle  over  the  fire ; 
Soon  it  tips  over  —  Saint  Patrick!  he's  mad  enough 

(If  he  were  present)  to  fight  with  the  Squire. 

Then  like  a  hog  in  a  mortar-bed  wallowing, 

Awkward  enough,  see  him  knading  his  dough ; 

Troth  !  if  the  bread  he  could  ate  without  swallowing, 
How  it  would  favor  his  palate,  you  know ! 


"  DIG   DEM   DAN'LINE  GREENS  !  "  249 

His  dishcloth  is  missing  — the  pigs  are  devouring  it  — 

In  the  pursuit  he  has  battered  his  shin ; 
A  plate  wanted  washing  —  Grimalkin  is  scouring  it; 

Tunder  and  turf!   what  a  pickle  he's  in  ! 

His  meal  being  over,  the  table's  left  setting  so ; 

Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves  if  you  can  ; 
But  hunger  returns,  then  he's  fuming  and  fretting  so ; 

Och  !  let  him  alone  for  a  baste  of  a  man  ! 

Pots,  dishes,  pans,  and  sich  grasy  commodities, 

Ashes  and  praty-skins  kiver  the  floor ; 
His  cupboard's  a  storehouse  of  comical  oddities, 

Things  that  had  niver  been  neighbors  before. 

Late  in  the  night  then  he  goes  to  bed  shiverin' ; 

Niver  the  bit  is  the  bed  made  at  all ; 
He  crapes  like  a  terrapin  under  the  kiverin' : 

Bad  luck  to  the  picture  of  Bachelor's  Hall ! 


"  Dig  dem   Dan'line   Greens  !  ' 

{Negro  Dialect.) 

MARY   HOCKETT   FLANNER. 

ON  de  fust  wahm  day  in  the  uhly  spring, 
Dig  dem,  dig  dem,  — 
Wen  de  robin's  chimed  his  froat  foh  ter  sing, 

Dig  dem  dan'line  greens  ! 
Wen  de  peach  tree  blossoms  bloomin'  all  'roun' 
Jes  tek  yoh  knife  an'  sit  on  de  groun' 

Foh  dig  dem  dan'line  greens. 


250  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Yoh  can  fill  yo'  dishpan  clah  to  de  top, 

Dig  dem,  dig  dem, 
No  one  gwine  foh  ter  hollah  "  Stop  !  " 

Wen  yoh  dig  dem  dan'line  greens. 
Tek  all  yoh  want,  de  Lawd  hain't  po', 
He  doan'  keep  no  lock  on  de  dan'line  do' 

Wen  yoh  dig  dem  dan'line  greens. 

Oh!  some  watahmillions  mighty  sweet, — 

Dig  dem,  dig  dem, 
Neveh  yit  had  's  many  's  I  could  eat, 

Dig  dem  dan'line  greens. 
I  lubs  chicken  dat  roose  jes  right, 
Easy  foh  ter  catch  on  de  darkes'  night, 

Dig  dem  dan'line  greens. 

But  some  watahmillions  's  no  good  at  all, 

Dig  dem,  dig  dem, 
'N'  mos'  chickens  squawks  w'en  yoh  pays  'em  er  call 

So  dig  dem  dan'line  greens. 
'N'  bile  em  up  wid  er  piece  fat  meat, 
Hit  's  de  'oneses'  dinnah  a  niggah  kin  eat ; 

Oh,  dig  dem  dan'line  greens  ! 


To  James  Whitcomb   Riley. 

WILLIS   WILFRED    FOWLER. 

SOMETIME  when  you  are  thinkin'  of  the  "  days  'at 
ust  to  be," 
With  a  kind  o'  wore-out  fancy  and  a  hart  that  akes  to  see 


TO  JAMES   WIIITCOMB   RILEY.  25  I 

The  gray  hairs  comin'  thicker,  with  the  noontide  of  the 

day 
A-fadin'  to  the  sunset  and  the  dawn  not  far  away  — 
Mayhap  you'll  pause  a  minute,  and  look  a  ninstant  where 
The  shine  o'  pleasure  ust  to  be,  but  see  it  isn't  there. 

But  yore  imagination,  then,  will  picture  what  has  bin, 
And  you  will  rome  out  on  the  farm,  and  woller  on  the 

green, 
Jist  as  ye  did  afore  ye  saw  the  city  er  the  sea, 
In  the  olden,  golden  sunshine  of  the  "  days  'at  ust  to 

be," 
Afore  ye  romed  Bohemia  in  serch  o'  recompense, 
At  "  six  words  for  a  quarter  "  dabbled  on  the  highway 

fence. 

It  kan't  be  long,  Jim  Riley,  'fore  ye've  got  to  leave  the 

toil 
Ov  this  short  life  to  mingle  with  the  elements  o'  soil  — 
But  ye'll  make  the  old  earth  richer  than  she  ever  was 

before, 
By  the  songs  ye  sung  her  children  in  the  happy  days  o' 

yore, 
And  she'll  sing  yore  old-time  ditties  with  a  gladness  full 

and  free 
Of  the  olden,  golden  glory  of  the  "  days  'at  ust  to  be." 


252  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 


The   Difference. 

S.    W.    GILLILAN. 

WHEN  I  said  I'd  go  away 
An'  maybe  stay  for  years, 
Mother  she  set  down  an'  cried 
Reg'lar  heart-broke  tears. 
Pap  felt  bad,  but  wouldn't  'a'  cried 
F'r  a  thousand  dollars ; 
When  he  feels  the  worst  he  jest 
Bats  'is  eyes  an'  swallers. 

When  I  come  t'  pack  my  trunk 
'T  was  th'  same  thing  over  ; 
I  wuz  feelin'  purty  peart, 
Thought  I'd  be  in  clover 
When  I  struck  a  city  job  — 
Beat  farm  work  all  holler ; 
Mother  cried,  but  pap  he'd  jest 
Blink  'is  eyes  an'  swaller. 

Night  afore  I  started,  I 

Heerd  somebody  prowlin* 

In  my  room,  an'  there  wuz  ma 

Cryin',  an'  pap  growlin'  : 

"  Come,  come  now,  an'  go  t'  bed." 

Then  she  sort  o'  hollered 

"  God  bless  Will !  "  but  pap  he  jest 

Blinked  'is  eyes  an'  swallered. 


POLLY-PODS.  253 

Mornin'  I  wuz  due  t'  go 
Folks  all  gethered  'round  me, 
Somepin'  stickin*  in  my  throat 
Sorter  stunned  an*  downed  me ; 
Mother's  arms  clung  to  my  neck 
'S  if  she'd  like  to  follered 
Ev'rywhere  I  went ;  but  pap  — 
He  jest  blinked  an'  swallered. 


Polly-Pods. 

SILAS   B.    McMANUS. 

OUT  in  my  fiel'  of  clover,  which  I'm  savin'  fur  the 
seed, 
Amongst   the   brown    heads  standin'   is    that  awk'ard, 

gawky  weed ; 
An'  I  laf,  altho'  I  oughtn't,  when  I  see  it  growin'  there, 
A-crowdin'  out  the  clover,  like  es  ef  it  owned  a  share 
Of  the  medder  an'  its  profits,  an'  wus  welcome  es  could 

be; 
An'  I  knowed  I'd  leave  it  peaceful  to  nod  'n'  grin  at  me. 
It's  like  a  strappin'  tomboy,  with  its  manners  all  left  out, 
An'  useful  jes'  for  nothin'  V  han'some  jes'  fer  stout; 
But  I  leave  it  there  —  a  beggar  —  only  that  it  drinks  the 

best 
Of  the  dew  and  eats  the  vittles  that  should  go  to  feed 

the  rest. 
I  hain't  the  heart  to  hurt  it,  fer  the  "Polly  "  of  its  name 
Keeps  it  tender  in  my  feelin's,  fer  my  gal  had  jest  the 

same. 


254  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

I  see  her  in  the  medder  like  she  wus  in  them  ole  days 
'Fore  the  angels  coaxed  her  frum  me,  —  an'  they  must 

hed  winnin'  ways, 
Fer  I  know  my  Polly  loved  me,  an'  nothin'  here  below 
Could  hev  made  her  leave   me  cryin',  like    my  heart 

would  break,  you  know.  — 
I  could  see  her  now  er  standin',  ef  the  tears  ud  keep 

away; 
Yes,  I  nigh  a'most  can  see  her  as  she  wus  one  summer 

day, 
A-loiterin'  through  the   medder  'n'  a-steppin'  here  an' 

there 
To  pull  the  dead-ripe  polly-pods  and  sow  the  smilin'  air 
With  the  brown  seeds  an'  the  feathers ;  an'  they'd  float 

off  like  a  dream 
Er  a  bubble  es  wus  sleepin'  on  some  idle,  lazy  stream ; 
Then  she'd  watch  'em  goin'  up'ard  in  a  kind  o'  wishful 

way,  — 
But  what  my  gal  were  thinkin'  uf,  I  kent,  of  course,  jest 

say; 
But  when  one  night  the  angels  my  little  pee-wee  took, 
Her  face  wus  sweet  with  smilin',  that   same   sweetly 

yearnin'  look 
She  had  that   day  in    summer  when  she  blowed  the 

polly-pods, 
An'  filled  her  arms  with  clover  an'  the  lim's  of  golden- 
rods; 
An'  so  I  leave  'em  growin',  'n'  I  reckon  that  they  make 
My  little  Polly  nearer,  'n'  I  love  'm  fur  her  sake. 


THE   FLICKER  ON   THE   FENCE.  255 

The   Flicker   on   the    Fence. 

SILAS    B.    McMANUS. 

BETWEEN  the  songs  an'  silences  of  the  flicker  on 
the  fence, 
A-singing  his  old-fashioned  tune,  full  of  meanin'  and  of 

sense, 
I  fall  into  a  musin'  spell  sometimes  of  other  days, 
When  things  was  mostly  different,  leastwise  in  many 

ways; 
An'  I  hev  a  lon'some  feelin',  and  a  longin'  fer  them 

times, 
Which   somehow  fits  exactly  with  the  yellerhammer's 

chimes. 
There's  a  kind  of  grace  hangs  over  them,  them  days  of 

other  years, 
As  makes  a  sighin'  fer  them  next  the  best  to  weepin' 

tears. 

I'd  like  ter  see  the  cradlers  go  wadin'  through  the  grain, 

With  ther  sleeves  rolled  up  an'  'spenders  off,  and 
sweatin'  like  the  rain. 

It's  an  old  man's  foolish  notion,  but  I'd  like  right  well 
ter  hear 

The  sound  of  scythes  a-whettin',  ringin'  out  so  sharp 
an'  clear, 

An'  see  the  men  a-settin'  down  ter  eat  ther  for'noon 
snack 

Of  doughnuts,  an'  ter  freshen  up  on  home-made  apple- 
jack. 


256  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

There  was  hurryin'  then,  an'  hayin'  an'  harvestin'  them 

days 
Was  somethin'    like  —  but  good   old  times,  they  very 

seldom  stays. 

Now,  the  reaper,  like  some  circus,  comes  a-prancin'  in 

the  lot, 
With  more  airs  and  fancy  fixin's,  and  like  enough  as 

not, 
Afore  it's  time  fer  dinner,  —  no  odds  how  hot  the  sun,  — 
That  machine  will  turn  its  tail  and  quit,  and  harvestin' 

is  done ! 
There's  no  bushin'  of  the  cradlers  —  no  snack  at  nine 

o'clock ; 
Fer  the  first  you  know  the  thing  is  done,  and  the  wheat 

is  in  the  shock. 
I  listen  ter  the  clangin'  till  I  hain't  got  eny  sense, 
An'  the  only  thing  old-fashioned  there  's  the  flicker  on 

the  fence. 

An'  hayin'  hain't  no  better — it's  done  nigh  'bout   ez 

soon  — 
With  no  hurryin',  ner  no  frettin',  ner  grindin'  scythes 

at  noon ; 
Or  rushin'  out  from  dinner  before  it's  one  o'clock, 
Fer  fear  the  rain  will  ketch  the  hay  before  it's  in  the 

cock. 
There  's  no  mowin'  'round  a  feller,  an'  makin'  him  feel 

mean, 
Or  pitchin'  on  the  load  so  fast  that  the  pitcher  can't  be 

seen. 


"PAP'S   COME   BACK  TER   INDIANY."  257 

There's  a  ca'm  now  'bout  the  hayin'  —  that  machine,  all 

striped  and  red, 
Just  makes  it  look  like  most  of  us  mout  nigh  as  well  be 

dead  : 
A  hitchin'  up  —  a  little  ile  —  a  mod'rate  hayin'  sun,  — 
A  patent  rake  and  loader,  an'  hayin'  's  good  as  done. 
And  corn  plantin's  like  it  mostly,  and  fer  me  there  seems 

no  need, 
Unless  it's  fiddlin'  after  it,  a-stickin'  punkin-seed ; 
Fer  the  planter's  hifalutin',  and  don't  take  no  stock,  you 

see, 
In  things  like  punkins,  as  have  grown  old-fashioned,  just 

like  me. 

The  boys  air  off  ter  college,  and  the  gals  are  paintin' 

ware, 
Or  a-playin'  the  pianner,  or  a-"  outin'  "  off  somewhere; 
An'   I   feel  so  kind  o'   lon'some  with  the  new  things 

round  about, 
An'  am  like  the  taller  candle,  waitin'  fer  ter  be  snuffed 

out. 
I  look  around  to  find  a  sign  that  I  hain't  lost  my  sense, 
An'  get  my  bearin's  when  I  hear  the    flicker  on   the 

fence. 

"  Pap's  come  back   ter   Indiany." 

WILLIAM   W.    PFRIMMER. 

PAP'S  come  back  ter  Indiany ! 
—  Guess  he's  come  back,  now,  ter  stay. 
—  Don't  remember  jest  how  meny 


258        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

Times  it  is  he's  been  away. 

—  Moved  ter  Illenoy  in  'fifty  — 
Maybe  late  as  'fifty-two  ; 

Settled  down  in  Massac  County, 

Kentry  then  was  kind  o'  new ; 
Ager  'peared  to  hold  persession, 

Long  with  chiggers,  ticks,  an'  fleas, 
But  pap's  grit,  an'  he  stuck  to  it, 

Till  he,  sort  o'  by  degrees, 
Lamed  the  custom  o'  the  kentry 

(Which  is  still  the  same  down  there) 
O'  takin'  quinine  mixed  with  whiskey, 

'Stead  o'  savin'  mornin'  prayer ; 

—  Stayed  there  till  the  spring  o'  'sixty 
(Sesesh  talk  was  purty  hot); 

What  with  pore  luck  an'  with  trouble, 

Pap  he  jest  got  up  an'  got 
Back  ag'in  ter  Indiany. 

Then  he  kind  o'  sort  o'  'lowed 
If  they  had  ter  be  a  racket 

He  was  goin'  with  the  crowd ; 
So  he  went  an'  tuck  his  chances 

Till  along  in  'sixty-four ; 
Then  he  up  an'  reinlisted, 

Said  he'd  try  it  three  years  more. 

—  Like  ter  got  his  everlastin' 
Down  in  Georgy  ;  recollect 

How  a  letter  frum  a  doctor 
Sed  we  needn't  ter  expect 

Ter  see  him  back  in  Indiany. 

Pap  he  thought  the  chances  thin, 


SILAS    B.    McMANUS. 


"STIRRIN'   OFF."  259 

But  he  tuck  another  notion,  — 

Arter  while  came  back  ag'in. 
—  Went  out  West  along  in  'eighty ; 

But  we  children  didn't  go, 
So  I  guess  he  sort  o'  felt  like 

Part  o'  him  warn't  there,  ye  know. 
Me  an'  Lizzie  kep'  a-coaxin' ; 

George  he  kind  o'  sided  in 
(Knowin'  jest  how  things  was  driftin'), 

Till  we  got  him  back  ag'in. 
Back  ag'in  ter  Indiany! 

—  Begins  ter  show  the  wear  an'  tear 
O'  his  sixty  years  an'  over, 

In  his  whiskers  an'  his  hair. 
Lines  aroun'  the  eyes  are  deeper, 

Figger's  little  out  o'  plumb ; 
But  it's  pap  !  an'  ye  jest  bet  ye, 

We  are  mighty  glad  he's  come ! 


"  Stirrin'  Off." 

J.    S.    REED. 

JEST  'bout  this  time  o'  season, 
In  these  Feb'uary  thaws, 
When  the  little  lam's  is  a-cavortin' 

An'  bleatin'  fur  the'r  mas, 
'N'  the  "stockers"  in  the  straw  pile 

With  'at  awful  mangy  cough  — 
Sich  as  these  is  all  fergotten 
When  it  comes  to  stirrin'  off. 


260  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

When  the  sugar  camp  is  open, 

'N'  the  kittles  in  a  row, 
'N'  the  front'ns  jest  a-whoopin' 

'N'  the  back'ns  bilin'  slow; 
Arter  all  the  worter's  gathered 

'N'  kivered  in  the  troff, 
'N'  the  syrup's  clared  an'  settled, 

Then  we'll  soon  be  stirrin'  off. 

Recullect  the  worter  drappin' 

In  the  troff  so  still  'n'  cl'ar, 
'N'  we'd  hunker  down  'n'  drink  it, 

Still  a-drappin'  in  our  ha'r. 
Recullect  yit  how  it  tasted, 

Sorter  soothin'-like  'n'  sweet  — 
Ef  a  feller  jest  could  buy  it 

You  could  tap  me  fur  a  treat. 

Offen  neighbor  boys  'ud  help  us 

Bilin'  worter  all  night  thro'  — 
Oh,  the  aigs  fhet  we  'ud  pilfer 

'D  make  us  think  of  Easter  too. 
'N'  the  chickens  —  what  a  slaughter! 

Quick  as  wink  the'r  heads  we'd  doff ; 
Yit  the  pleasure  wasn't  nothin' 

'Longside  sugar  stirrin'  off. 

When  the  syrup  'mences  "  puttin'," 
'N'  makin'  yaller  doodle  hills, 

Pap'd  git  his  cup  an'  worter 
'N'  drap  into  it  waxy  pills, 


NOTHIN'   TO   SAY.  26 1 

'N'  rap  the  "gob  "  agin  the  vessel 

So's  't  ain't  too  hard  n'r  soff ; 
Then  we  all  prepare  fur  bizness, 

Fur  it's  purty  nigh  stirrin'  off. 

Ev'ry  feller  with  th'r  paddle, 

Whittled  out  o'  hickory  sap, 
Gath'rs  'roun'  the  sugar  furnace, 

Keepin'  ev'ry  eye  on  pap 
'Til  he  takes  it  from  the  kittle 

'N'  puts  it  in  the  coolin'  troff ; 
We'd  eat  'ntil  it  'mences  grainin'  — 

Then  we're  plum  dun  stirrin'  off. 


Nothin'   to   Say. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB   RILEY. 

{By  permission  of  The  Bowen- Merrill  Co.) 

NOTHIN'  to  say,  my  daughter!     Nothin'  at  all  to 
say !  — 
Gyrls  that's  in  love,  I've  noticed,  ginerly  has  their  way  ! 
Yer  mother  did,  afore  you,  when  her  folks  objected  to 

me  — 
Yit  here  I  am,  and  here  you  air ;  and  yer  mother  —  * 
where  is  she  ? 

You  look  lots  like  yer  mother :    purty   much  same  in 

size ; 
And  about  the  same  complected ;  and  favor  about  the 

eyes; 


262  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Like  her,  too,  about  liviri  here,  —  because  she  couldn't 

stay  : 
It'll  'most  seem  like  you  was  dead  —  like  her!  —  but  I 

hain't  got  nothin'  to  say  ! 

She  left  you  her  little  Bible  — writ  yer  name  acrost  the 

page  — 
And  left  her  ear-bobs  fer  you,  ef  ever  you  come  of  age. 
I've  alius  kep'   'em  and  gyuarded  'em,  but  ef  yer  goin' 

away  — 
Nothin'  to  say,  my  daughter  !     Nothin'  at  all  to  say ! 

You  don't  rikollect  her,  I  reckon !     No ;  you  wasn't  a 

year  old  then  ! 
And   now   yer  —  how   old   air    you?     W'y,    child,    not 

"twenty"!     When? 
And  yer  next  birthday's  in  Aprile  ?  and  you  want  to  git 

married  that  day  ? 
...   I  wisht  yer  mother  was  livin' !  — but —  I  hain't  got 

nothin'  to  say ! 

Twenty  year !  and  as  good  a  gyrl  as  parent  ever  found ! 
There's  a  straw  ketched  onto  yer  dress  there  —  77/bresh 

it  off —  turn  'round  — 
(Her  mother  was  jes'  twenty  when  us  two  run  away  !  ) 
Nothin'  to  say,  my  daughter  !     Nothin'  at  all  to  say  ! 


THE  THENG.  263 

The    Theng.1 

DR.    W.    H.     TAYLOR. 

ITHESS  tell  you  —  gent\e-men  ! 
Ef  airry  a  one  of  you  hed  ben 
Long  with  me 
Soce  you  could  see ! 
'At  is  —  ef  you  could  see  —  a-tall, 
More'n  thu  thattair  back  wall ! 
Less  the  night 
Hed  ben  more  light. 

The  moon  looked  all  drawed  up,  an'  green, 
Not  much  bigger'n  a  butter-bean  ! 
The  groun'  wair  wet  an'  slick  as  soap  ! 
My  critter  wair  go-un  a  p-yeart-like  lope  ; 
Some  dad-blame  dawg  sot  up  a  howl ; 
An',  out  en  the  bresh,  some  ornerry  owl 
Thess  kep  a-beller'n  —  'f  I'd  hed  a  steck, 
I'd  love  to  a-broke  hits  ornerry  neck ! 

Thess  en  the  daytime,  unner-stan, 
I'm  thess  as  vi-gerce  as  any  man ! 
But  a  cloud  thess  come  acrost  the  sky. 
Thess  then  my  critter  commenced  to  shy ! 
I  felt  so  cu-erce  I  thought  I'd  seng ! 
Thess,  thess  then  !  I  seed  the  THENG  ! 

1  "  The  Theng"  was  a  name  frequently  given  by  the  early  settlers  of 
Indiana  from  certain  sections  of  the  south  for  any  mysterious  apparition, 
the  origin  of  which  they  did  not  understand. 


264  POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

My  beece  see  hit  fust,  un  thar  she  stuck ! 

Thess  squatted,  un  trimmeld,  un  thess,  thess  shuck ! 

I  wouldn't  look  towards  the  buryin'  groun' ! 

But  my  head  thess  turned  hitseff  aroun' ! 

I  thess  be  tee-toe-tially,  thess  da.wg-g-one} 

Ef  thar  wawnt  the  THENG,  with  grave  clothes  on  ! 

Look  lack  ?     Well !  —  when  I  seed  Hit 
I  thess  laid  whurp,  an  licketty  split ! 
I  thess  went  a-bilun  down  the  lane  ! 
A-holdin'  on  to  my  critter's  mane, 
Spectin',  uvver  jump  she  fotch, 
Thess,  thess  t lien's  whur  I'd  git  cotch  ! 

How  tall  ?     Men  !  that's  purty  rough  ! 

But  I  say,  right  Ji-yur  —  hit  wair  tall  enough 

To  thess  make  airry  feller  h-yar  thess  feel 

As  cold  as  a  waige,  an'  limber's  a  eel ! 

You  don't  suppose  'at  a  feller'd  breng 

His  mayzhern  pole!  — an  mayzher  the  THENG  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Two   Views. 

MRS.   MARIE    L.   ANDREWS. 

"  'T^HE  moments  are  sweet,"  she  said,  "  all  sweet ; 
-L     The  earth  is  glad  and  the  skies  are  blue, 
And  I've  learned  my  lesson  of  love  all  through, 
While  pansies  and  violets  grow  at  my  feet." 

"The  moments  are  sad,"  she  said,  "all  sad  ; 

My  heart  is  heavy,  the  heavens  are  gray, 

As  I  watch  a  harvester  at  his  hay,  — 
Ah,  me  !  were  the  skies  and  the  earth  ever  glad  ? " 


The  Old  Church. 

MRS.    ALBION   FELLOWS   BACON. 

CLOSE  to  the  road  it  stood,  among  the  trees, 
The  old  bare  church,  with  windows  small  and  high 
And  open  doors  that  gave,  on  meeting-day, 
A  welcome  to  the  careless  passer-by. 

Its  straight,  uncushioned  seats,  how  hard  they  seemed, 
What  penance-doing  form  they  always  wore 
To  little  heads  that  could  not  reach  the  text, 
And  little  feet  that  could  not  reach  the  floor. 

267 


268  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

What  wonder  that  we  hailed  with  strong  delight 
The  buzzing  wasp,  slow  sailing  down  the  aisle, 
Or,  sunk  in  sin,  beguiled  the  constant  fly 
From  weary  heads,  to  make  our  neighbors  smile. 

How  softly  from  the  churchyard  came  the  breeze 
That  stirred  the  cedar  boughs  with  scented  wings, 
And  gently  fanned  the  sleeper's  heated  brow, 
Or  fluttered  Grandma  Barlow's  bonnet  strings. 

With  half-shut  eyes,  across  the  pulpit  bent, 
The  preacher  droned  in  soothing  tones  about 
Some  theme,  that,  like  the  narrow  windows  high, 
Took  in  the  sky,  but  left  terrestrials  out. 

Good,  worthy  man,  his  work  on  earth  is  done, 

His  place  is  lost,  the  old  church  passed  away  ; 

And  with  them,  when  they  went,  there  must  have  gone 

That  sweet,  bright  calm,  my  childhood's  Sabbath  day. 


In   Quiet  Hours. 

MRS.    MARGARET   HOLMES   BATES. 

IN  quiet  hours,  when  hind'ring  snares 
Are  cast  aside,  the  spirit  fares 
Far  up  the  way  where  grief  and  pain 
Are  felt  no  more,  nor  loss  nor  gain, 
And  life  is  sweet  with  answered  prayers. 


ONLY   A   DREAM.  269 

The  soul  her  banquet  then  prepares  ; 
With  friend  and  foe  alike  she  shares ; 
No  selfish  thought  the  heart  may  stain 
In  quiet  hours. 

Thus  freed  awhile  from  sordid  cares, 
What  heights  sublime  the  spirit  dares  ! 
Then  gentle  strangers  cross  the  plain, 
The  shelter  of  our  tents  to  gain  : 
We  talk  with  angels  unawares 
In  quiet  hours. 


Only  a  Dream. 

MRS.  MARGARET  HOLMES  BATES. 

"""P*  WAS  only  a  dream  —  that  the  shadows  lifted, 
-L       That  the  grief  and  burden  of  life  had  fled ; 

'T  was  only  a  dream  —  that  the  sunshine  sifted 
Through  swaying  vine  leaves  above  my  head. 

The  clouds  hang  low,  and  are  dark  as  ever ; 

The  earth  lies  wrapt  in  a  shroud  of  gray ; 
The  winds  sweep  round  me ;  ah,  never,  never, 

Shall  my  soul  rejoice  in  a  brighter  day. 

Yet,  though  my  dream  was  fair  and  fleeting, 
As  fair  and  fleeting  as  morning  dew, 

From  the  land  of  promise  it  gave  me  greeting, 
And  haply,  hereafter,  our  dreams  come  true. 


270  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Poetry. 

HORACE   P.    BIDDLE. 

AH,  who  shall  tell  me  what  thou  art, 
Divine,  mysterious  power, 
That  hovers  round  the  gentle  heart 
As  fragrance  round  the  flower, 

That  like  the  soft  ethereal  bow 
Flashes  its  heavenly  light, 

On  all  created  things  below 

And  makes  the  world  so  bright  ? 


xt>' 


The  spirit  of  the  beautiful, 
In  all  things  free  and  good, 

That  gushes  from  a  mighty  soul 
Too  full  to  check  the  flood. 

Quatrains. 

HORACE   P.    BIDDLE. 

Music. 

MUSIC  is  liquid  poetry 
Whose  soft  and  genial  flow 
Reaches  the  heart's  deep  mystery 
Where  language  cannot  go. 

Beauty. 
Beauty  that  to  earth  is  given 

Bloometh  but  a  day  : 
Virtue  like  the  star  of  heaven 

Passeth  not  away. 


IF  I   WERE  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  BRIGHTEST   STAR.      27 1 

Her  Beauty. 

Her  beauty  burst  upon  my  sight 
Like  morn  awaking  from  the  night, 

Or  like  a  flower  upon  the  wild 
All  desolate  until  it  smiled. 

If  I  were  the    Light   of  the    Brightest   Star. 

MRS.    SARAH   T.    BOLTON. 

IF  I  were  the  light  of  the  brightest  star 
That  burns  in  the  zenith  now, 
I  would  tremble  down  from  my  home  afar, 

To  kiss  thy  radiant  brow. 
If  I  were  the  breath  of  a  fragrant  flower, 

With  viewless  wing  and  free, 
I  would  steal  away  from  the  fairest  bower 
And  live,  love,  but  for  thee. 

If  I  were  the  soul  of  bewitching  song, 

With  a  moving,  melting  tone, 
I  would  float  from  the  gay  and  thoughtless  throng 

And  soothe  thy  soul  alone. 
If  I  were  a  charm  by  fairy  wrought, 

I  would  bind  thee  with  a  sign  ; 
And  never  again  should  a  gloomy  thought 

O'ershadow  thy  spirit's  shrine. 

If  I  were  a  memory,  past  alloy, 

I  would  linger  where  thou  art ; 
If  I  were  a  thought  of  abiding  joy, 

I  would  nestle  in  thy  heart. 


272  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

If  I  were  a  hope,  with  the  magic  light 

That  makes  the  future  fair, 
I  would  make  thy  path  on  the  earth  as  bright 

As  the  paths  of  angels  are. 


My  Teachers  and  Hearers. 

(From  a  poem  read  before  The  Western  Association  of  Writers  in  1890.) 
MRS.    SARAH   T.    BOLTON. 

I  LEARNED  to  sing  in  Nature's  solitudes, 
Among  the  free  wild  birds  and  antlered  deer ; 
In  the  primeval  forest  and  the  rude 
Log  cabin  of  the  western  pioneer. 

My  hearers  were  the  men  of  horny  hands, 

Untaught  in  classic  school,  unlearned  of  art,  — 

Knights  errant  they,  who  rescued  these  broad  lands 
From  waste  to  field  and  forum,  church  and  mart. 

They  came  and  laid  the  forest  giants  low, 
As  brave  of  heart  and  true  to  their  design 

As  those  who  wrested  from  the  paynim  foe 
The  holy  Sepulcher  of  Palestine. 

They  had  not  heard,  along  their  rugged  ways, 
The  songs  the  masters  sung  in  other  times, 

Knew  naught  of  Shakespeare's  work,  or  Byron's  lays, 
Yet  listened  kindly  to  my  simple  rhymes. 


PADDLE  YOUR  OWN  CANOE.  273 

They  loved  the  whisper  of  the  leaves,  the  breeze, 

The  rune  of  rivulets,  the  trill  of  birds, 
And  my  poor  songs  were  echoes  caught  from  these, 

Voices  of  Nature  set  to  rhythmic  words. 

If,  in  my  mission  to  the  fair  new  land, 

I  served  the  needs  and  interests  of  the  day, 

And  only  wrote  my  name  upon  the  sand 

That  time's  relentless  waves  shall  wash  away  — 

If  I  jiave  failed  to  reach  my  highest  aim, 

To  make  the  circle  of  my  life  complete, 
I  tried  to  do  the  work  for  which  I  came, 

Walking  a  thorny  way  with  wounded  feet ; 

And  I  may  learn,  in  some  fair  world  to  be, 
Beyond  all  suffering,  sacrifice,  and  pain, 

That  I  have  sowed  some  goodly  seed,  may  see 
My  lifelong  labor  was  not  all  in  vain. 

And  when  I  lay  my  broken  harp  aside, 
And  leave  behind  the  dusty  robe  I  wore, 

Trusting  in  God,  wherever  I  may  bide, 
I  hope  to  sing  forever,  evermore. 


V 


Paddle  your   own   Canoe. 

MRS.    SARAH   T.    BOLTON. 

OYAGER  upon  life's  sea,  to  yourself  be  true, 
And  where'er  your  lot  may  be,  paddle  your  own 
canoe ! 


274  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Never,  though  the  winds  may  rave,  falter  nor  look  back ; 
But  upon  the  darkest  wave  leave  a  shining  track. 

Nobly  dare  the  wildest  storm,  stem  the  rudest  gale, 
Brave  of  heart  and  strong  of  arm,  you  will  never  fail. 

When  the  world  is  cold  and  dark,  keep  an  aim  in  view ; 
And  toward  the  beacon  mark  paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Every  wave  that  bears  you  on  to  the  silent  shore, 
From  its  sunny  source  has  gone  to  return  no  more, 

Then  let  not  an  hour's  delay  cheat  you  of  your  due ; 
But,  while  it  is  called  to-day,  paddle  your  own  canoe. 

If  your  birth  denies  you  wealth,  lofty  state,  and  power, 
Honest  fame  and  hardy  health  are  a  better  dower. 

But  if  these  will  not  suffice,  golden  gain  pursue  ; 

And,  to  gain  the  glittering  prize,  paddle  your  own 
canoe. 

Would  you  wrest  the  wreath  of  fame  from  the  hand  of 

fate  ; 

Would  you  write  a  deathless  name  with  the  good  and 

great ; 

Would  you  bless  your  fellow-men,  heart  and  soul  imbue 

With  the  holy  task,  and  then  paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Would  you  crush  the  tyrant  wrong,  in  the  world's  free 
fight, 
With  a  spirit  brave  and  strong,  battle  for  the  right ; 
And  to  break  the  chains  that  bind  many  to  the  few  — 
To    enfranchise    slavish    mind  —  paddle    your    own 
canoe. 


YOUTH   AND   AGE.  275 

Nothing  great  is  lightly  won,  nothing  won  is  lost ; 

Every  good  deed,  nobly  done,  will  repay  the  cost. 
Leave  to  heaven,  in  humble  trust,  all  you  will  to  do ; 

But,   if  you'd  succeed,   you   must  paddle  your   own 
canoe. 

Youth  and  Age. 

ETHEL   BOWMAN. 

GLAD  as  the  joy  that  throbs  in  laughing  June, 
Sweet  as  the  song  of  hope  the  throstle  sings, 

Brave  as  the  falcon  soaring  on  quick  wings, 
Is  Youth,  loved  Youth,  who  passes  all  too  soon, 
His  eyes  are  bright,  his  gay  lips  lilt  a  tune, 

He  craves  to  be  e'er  in  the  heart  of  things  ; 

Intense,  impassioned,  mind  and  soul  he  flings 
Into  life's  fray,  and  struggle  counts  a-  boon. 

In  proud  self-confidence  he  vows  to  gain,  somehow, 
Each  sought-for  good.     He  hears  sad  wailing  cries 

Where  hopeless  ones  sink  in  Despond's  dread  slough, 
Yet,  unafraid,  he  plans  some  high  emprise, 

And  dreams  what  laurel  wreaths  shall  crown  his  brow, 
And  gazes  futureward  with  eager  eyes. 

Untroubled  as  the  sea  when  storms  are  o'er, 

Bless'd  as  a  benediction,  heaven-sent, 

Serenely  happy  in  his  calm  content, 
Is  Age,  who  comes  and  does  not  leave  us  more. 
Most  great  his  dear-bought  wisdom,  sweet  his  store 

Of  tender  mem'ries  of  dear  days  long  spent ; 

The  hard-learned  lessons,  glad  with  bitter  blent, 


276  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Seem  now  most  precious  of  life's  treasured  lore. 

And  what  though  proud  hopes  died  in  embryo  ? 
And  what  though  eyes  were  ofttimes  blind  with  tears  ? 

'T  was  life,  and  just  to  live  is  good,  and  so 
The  loving,  hoping,  striving — each  appears 

Full  worth  the  price  ;  and  Age,  with  head  bowed  low 
And  thankful  heart,  looks  back  o'er  shining  years. 


The  Lost  Hope. 

MRS.    LOUISE   V.    BOYD. 
I. 

IT  is  lost,  the  sweet  hope  that  was  mine,  till  it  taught 
me 
To  believe  that  it  formed  of  my  being  a  part ; 
Till  my  cheek  could   but  glow,  and  my  eye  but   take 
luster 
From  the  flame  it  had  lit  on  the  hearth  of  the  heart. 

11. 
'T  was  my  sun  through  the  day  and  the  star  of  my  night- 
time; 
But  alas !  when  I  knew  not,  it  suddenly  fled, 
And  its  light  is  no  longer  a  crown  for  the  living, 
And,  oh  !  bitterer  sorrow  !  't  is  not  with  the  dead. 

in. 
Oh  !  no  ;  had  it  died  with  the  voice  of  a  loved  one, 

Or  chilled  with  some  brow  in  the  grave's  gloomy  prison, 
Some  angel  of  light  by  the  sepulcher  doorway 

Might  kindly  point  upward  and  say,  "  It  is  risen." 


THE   IMMORTALITY   OF  THE   SOUL.  277 

IV. 

But  now,  in  the  glory  and  brightness  of  noonday 
I  but  feel  that  some  shadow  my  spirit  has  crossed, 

And  at  midnight,  from  dreams  of  the  hope  that  once 
cheered  me 
I  awake  with  the  cry  on  my  lips,  "  It  is  lost !  " 

v. 
Though  sometimes,  even  yet,  to  my  desolate  bosom, 

Its  memory,  a  phantom-like  wandering  ray, 
Comes,  sweet  as  a  flower  scent  borne  by  the  breezes, 

And  soft  as  an  echo  just  dying  away; 

VI. 

Yet  't  is  lost,  and  more  sad  than  the  star  sisters  grieving 
When  a  Pleiad  was  missed  from  the  heavenly  host, 

Is  each  sister  hope's  sigh,  by  despair  overshadowed, 
Since  I  say  of  the  bright  one,  "  'T  is  lost !  it  is  lost !  " 


The  Immortality  of  the   Soul. 

ALBERT  FLETCHER  BRIDGES. 

AT  evening's  hour  of  solitude,  when  man 
Is  wont  to  gaze  entranced  upon  the  stars, 
Shining  eternal  in  the  vaulted  sky, 
And  smile  to  think  that,  when  their  light  is  dim, 
He  yet  shall  live  —  there  comes  the  cheerless  thought 
That  his  fond  hope  of  immortality 
Perhaps  is  baseless,  and  at  best  a  dream. 


278  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  on  the  morrow's  dawn,  when  busy  care 
Intrudes,  and  chains  his  mind  to  grosser  things, 
The  thought  is  with  him  still. 

The  swift  years  pass, 
In  flight  unnoticed  leveling  hills  and  vales 
ThatAvere  earth's  glory  in  her  vanished  youth, 
And  nature's  hint  of  immortality. 
Centuries  come  and  go,  time's  corridors 
No  longer  echoing  to  their  muffled  tread, 
And  from  their  dark  and  voiceless  tomb  returns, 
Though  importuned,  no  answering  word  or  sign ; 
What  time  the  everlasting  mountain,  hoary 
With  the  snow-fall  of  ages  long  forgot, 
Wearing  upon  its  rugged  brow,  deep-notched, 
The  royal  signet  of  eternity, 
Soon,  level  with  the  lowly  plain,  shall  rear 
No  more  its  pillared  form,  God's  monument. 
Why,  then,  should  he,  frail,  trembling  child  of  dust, 
When  suns  have  run  their  race,  and  starry  skies 
Are  robed  in  ebon  darkness,  and  winged  Time 
Has  dropped  his  glass  and  scythe,  as  disenthroned 
And  scepterless  he  lies  amid  the  wreck 
That  marked  his  lordly  reign  — why  should  he 
Hope  to  live  ?     Man's  works  die  with  puny  hands 
That  made  them.     God's  material  worlds  endure 
Their  day  and  are  no  more.     Annulling  fate's 
Decree,  can  he  alone  live  on,  when  all 
Beside  have  perished,  in  some  new,  far  world, 
More  bright  and  beautiful  than  this,  the  home 
Of  angels  and  of  God  ? 


IN   HIS   NAME.  279 

A  voice  within, 
That  reason  cannot  still,  says  :  Man 
Shall  live  forever !     It  is  dust  returns  to  dust. 
The  soul  that  beats  its  wings,  a  prisoned  bird, 
Against  the  barriers  of  its  clay-built  cell, 
Is  not  of  earth.     Its  far-off  home,  once  seen 
By  exiled  seer,  is  God's  own  paradise. 
There,  when  prison  doors  give  way,  and  narrow 
Walls  lie  heaped  in  moldering  ruins,  fetterless 
And  free,  its  snow-white  plumage  it  shall  bathe 
In  sea  of  crystal  near  the  great  white  throne, 
And  from  the  midst  of  life's  celestial  tree, 
When  time  is  o'er  and  all  its  works  forgot, 
Its  songs  of  praise  rejoicing  it  shall  sing, 
Its  long-lost,  ancient  liberty  restored. 


In   His  Name. 

MRS.    M.    SEARS   BROOKS. 

WITHIN  a  desert  reaching  far  and  wide, 
I  stood,  and  saw  a  mighty  caravan, 
Whose  tortuous  path  I  could  but  dimly  scan, 
Pass  on,  and  on,  a  surging  human  tide. 


The  sun  looked  down  with  sickly,  yellow  glare, 
Upon  the  millions  toiling  by  the  way, 
And  mothers  wept,  and  turned  aside  to  pray, 

Whilst  some  blasphemed  and  cursed  the  mothers'  prayer. 


280  POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  some  went  mad  with  raging,  burning  thirst,  — 
So  near  the  mirage  seemed,  with  cooling  streams, 
Whose  rippling  flow  forever  mocked  their  dreams, 

And  left  them  famished,  helpless,  and  accursed. 

Lo !  at  my  hand  a  tiny,  sparkling  rill ! 

I  thought  to  hoard  it  for  my  own  loved  boy.  — 
God  took  him  —  saying,  "Henceforth,  this  your  joy, 

To  bear  the  cup  of  water,  cure  life's  ill ! 

"  Sit  not  at  home  in  stolid,  calm  content, 

Whilst  hearts  break  over  sons  who  do  not  die, 
And  daughters  lost,  whose  unavailing  cry 

Rends  the  fair  veil  of  God's  high  firmament. 


*£>' 


"  Let  those  who  at  their  ease  would  still  deride 
Thy  cup  of  water,  offered  in  His  Name, 
Bestowed  to  save  some  suffering  soul  from  shame, 

Remember!    Him,  they  also  crucified." 


Vanquished. 

MRS.  M.    SEARS   BROOKS. 

There  are  green  valleys  in  Thrace.  —  Gladiator. 
IRD  on  thy  strength,  my  soul !  the  contest  waits ! 


G 


Alone,  and  single-handed,  front  the  fates  ! 
Go,  hear  the  thousand  plaudits  of  the  throng 
For  him  who  smites  thee  with  some  cruel  wrong 
Look  vainly  round,  some  vestal's  pity  crave, 
Yet  find  no  mercy  there,  only  thy  grave. 


UNAWARES.  28l 

While  gathering  mists  suggest  some  faint  surprise 

Of  jasper  sea  and  walls  of  paradise, 

Rise  !  thou,  my  soul !  while  life  is  ebbing  fast, 
Whilst  hope,  ambition,  love,  fade  in  the  past. 

From  life's  arena  fly  !     Yield  up  thy  place, 

For  dreams  in  valleys  green  as  those  of  Thrace. 


Unawares. 

MRS.    ALICE    WILLIAMS    BROTHERTON. 

{By  permission,  from  the  Atlantic  Monthly.) 

A  SONG  welled  up  in  the  singer's  heart 
(Like  a  song  in  the  throat  of  a  bird), 
And  loud  he  sang,  and  far  it  rang,  — 
For  his  heart  was  strangely  stirred  ; 
And  he  sang  for  the  very  joy  of  song, 
With  no  thought  of  one  who  heard. 

Within  the  listener's  wayward  soul 

A  heavenly  patience  grew. 
He  fared  on  his  way  with  a  benison 

On  the  singer,  who  never  knew 
How  the  careless  song  of  an  idle  hour 

Had  shaped  a  life  anew. 


282  POETS  'AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

On  a  Fly-leaf  of  Shakespeare. 

CLARENCE  A.    BUSKIRK. 

WHAT    rare   bee-bread    was   that    which    Shake- 
speare's lips 
Fed  on,  and  whose  Olympic  nectar  drips 
Forever  on  his  page  ! 

Surpassing  sweets  the  fancies  garnered  then, 
To  run  in  honied  raptures  from  his  pen, 
Such  sweets  as  fancy  garners  not  again 
For  poet,  wit,  or  sage. 

Often  his  kindling  sentence  starts  a  flame 

Of  swift  delight,  and  thoughts,  which  erst  were  tame 

And  torpid  in  our  hearts, 
Leap  into  iridescence  ;  oft  a  word 
Comes  to  us  like  the  wood-notes  of  a  bird, 
And  hints  supernal  music  never  heard 

That  nevermore  departs. 


In   Happy  Plight. 


EMMA    N.    CARLETON. 


WHEN  earthly  visions  round  me  close, 
Thou  art  my  mistress,  beauteous  Prose ; 
But  when  heaven's  touch  is  on  mine  eye, 
I  dream  I  serve  thee,  —  Poesy. 


FAILURE.  283 

Portrait   of  a   Lady. 


EMMA    N.    CARLETON. 


"  I  "*  IS  like  her,  but  she  does  not  smile 

X       I  look  into  her  eyes, 
And  linger,  dreaming  all  the  while 
Sweet  greeting  may  arise. 

'T  is  like  her,  but  she  does  not  speak  — 
Ah,  sweetheart  —  lack-a-day  ! 

Fie  on  the  art  that  tints  the  cheek, 
And  steals  the  soul  away. 


Failure. 

MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD. 

(from  "  Armry  "  —  a  long  poem.} 

ARMRY,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon  line 
Or  some  strange  plane  of  vision,  without  pause 
Struck  on  a  minor  key  and  chanted,  Failure. 

"  I  came  strong-armed  to  my  fate,  my  fate : 
I  picked  up  the  world  as  a  child  at  play 

Will  pick  up  an  apple,  and  this  I  ate ; 
And  I  flung  the  core  away. 

"With  its  exquisite  juice  on  my  lips,  my  lips, 
I  sprang  to  the  sky  and  harnessed  the  Bear 

And  the  star-horned  Bull,  and  drove  them  with  whips 
Through  the  spaces  everywhere. 


284  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

"  The  Southern  Cross  on  my  breast,  my  breast, 
With  a  strand  of  Berenice's  hair  I  hung; 

And  I  lay  in  the  Pleiades'  laps  to  rest 
While  systems  around  me  swung. 

"  All  of  these  glories  were  mine,  were  mine ! 

But  my  soul  slipped  from  me  —  my  soul,  my  guide! 
Oh,  I  had  the  gross,  but  I  lost  the  divine ! 

That's  failure  !     So  I  died." 


My   Secret. 

MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD. 

IF  you  knew  my  secret  you  would  not  believe  it ; 
If  you  knew  my  secret  you  would  laugh  at  me. 
Once  I  was  a  tree !  —  How  my  life  did  leave  it, 
That  I  cannot  tell  at  all :  —  but  once  I  was  a  tree  ! 

Wide  I  spread  my  branches  with  all  the  leaves  a-shaking. 

Oh,  but  it  was  mighty  to  wrestle  with  a  storm  ! 
Deep  I  struck  my  roots,  and  feared  not  any  quaking ; 

There  I  hid  my  heart's  best  blood  to  save  and  keep 
it  warm. 

Still  I  want  to  ripple  with  the  rhythmic  motion ! 

Still   I   strike  my  roots  so  deep  they  never  can  be 
moved ! 
Oh,   I    want  to   sing  my  song  the  angels  taught  the 
ocean, 
And  the  ocean  taught  the  forest :  for  the  forest  was 
beloved. 


TONGUE,  NOT   SPIRIT.  285 

Give  me  room  to  grow  in ;  let  me  shelter  creatures, 
Let  the  autumn  strike  me  golden,  let  the  winter  strip  ! 

I  forget  that  flesh  has  given  me  human  features ; 
Still  the  dryad  spirit  is  laughing  on  my  lip  ! 

For  I  was  a  tree ;   with  hillsides  for  my  pillows  ; 

I  was  once  a  tree,  glad  in  rushing  rains ! 
Oh,  I  want  to  sing  the  songs  that  angels  taught  the 
billows ! 

When  I  see  my  forest  kin  the  sap  leaps  in  my  veins ! 


Tongue,   not  Spirit. 

MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD. 

OGOD,  when  I  blasphemed  Thee  then,  and  then, 
And  dared  Thee  fiercely,  saying,  "Who  art  Thou? 
Do  Thy  dread  worst :  —  Thy  torments  shall  not  cow 
My  soul  to  servile  prayer  with  other  men  !  " 

When  I  forgot  Thy  dew  of  tenderness 
That  oft  has  filled  me  as  a  brimming  cup  ; 
The  sense  of  Thee  which  draws  my  spirit  up  ; 
The  faith  in  Thee  which  heals  my  worst  distress  — 

O  God,  Whose  love  is  all  in  all  to  me, 

Didst  Thou  from  worlds  and  systems  turn  an  eye 

And  see  this  atom  in  repentance  lie 

For  offering  such  violence  to  Thee  ? 


286  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  like  a  patient  mother  as  Thou  art, 
Say  —  "  This  poor  soul  will  reach  a  riper  age  ; 
And  cease  to  rend  itself  with  helpless  rage ; 
And  sometime  feel  the  beating  of  My  heart. 

"  It  was  his  tongue,  not  spirit,  that  reviled. 
Had  he  forsaken  brothers  in  their  need, 
Then  had  My  image  been  blasphemed  indeed ! 
I  will  excuse  the  wailing  of  a  child  !  " 


Through  Life. 

MRS.  EMILY  THORNTON  CHARLES. 

ENTERING  life,  we  come  fearfully 
Into  the  new  and  unknown ; 
Trembling  and  terrified,  tearfully 

Lifting  life's  burden  alone  ; 
Braving  its  danger  more  cheerfully 
When  we  the  stronger  have  grown. 

Still,  like  old  Earth,  so  receivingly 
Taking  the  bad  and  the  good, 

Taking,  or  choosing,  believingly 
Ever  the  best,  as  we  could  ; 

Sadly  repenting,  then  grievingly 
Striving  to  do  as  we  should. 

Long  may  we  wander,  transgressingly, 

Ingrates  whom  passions  enslave; 
Haughtily,  proudly,  rejectingly, 


HER   POEM.  287 

Scorning  the  mercy  God  gave ; 
Nor  looking  to  Him  who  protectingly 
His  arm  forth  stretches  to  save. 

Thoughtlessly,  carelessly,  musingly, 

Playing  at  life's  checkered  game ; 
Ever  the  tally-sheet  losingly 

Scoreth  a  list  to  our  name ; 
Bravely  doth  Conscience  accusingly 

Waken  our  senses  to  shame. 

Looking  to  Conscience  inquiringly, 

Thoughtlessness  seemeth  a  sin ; 
Working  and  striving  untiringly, 

So  must  the  battle  begin. 
Faith,  hope,  and  love  will  inspiringly 

Teach  us  how  life  we  may  win. 

May  we  our  duty  do  darefully, 

Strengthening  careworn,  oppressed  ; 

Threading  our  way  ever  carefully 

Through  snares,  to  the  home  of  the  blest ; 

Hopefully,  cheerfully,  prayerfully, 
Finding  in  heaven  a  rest. 

Her   Poem. 

M.   LOUISA   CHITWOOD. 

"  "  "  WILL  sing,"  thus  said  a  poet; 

J-   "I  will  sing  a  lay  for  love." 
Meekly  were  her  dark  eyes  lifted 

To  the  quiet  stars  above ; 


288  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Then  there  came  a  dear,  good  angel, 
And  her  white  wings  o'er  her  pressed, 

Turning  to  a  low,  sweet  music 
Every  pulse  within  her  breast. 

Then,  with  dreamy  eyes  and  misty, 

And  with  red  lips,  half  apart, 
Wove  she  into  words  and  stanzas 

The  emotions  of  her  heart. 
"  Go  !  "  she  said,  "  thou  little  poem, 

Go  abroad  like  Noah's  dove,  — 
Breathe  to  every  heart  a  blessing, 

Bring  me  love  !     Oh,  bring  me  love  ! " 

Lightly  went  the  little  poem, 

Gladly  on  its  mission  sweet, 
Like  a  wave  of  wondrous  beauty, 

Singing  at  the  sailor's  feet, 
Like  a  green  tree  in  the  desert, 

Like  a  cooling  water  brook, 
Like  a  lily  by  a  river, 

Like  a  violet  in  a  nook. 

Oh !  like  all  things  bright  and  joyous, 

Was  that  simple,  earnest  lay, 
And  of  love  a  plenteous  harvest 

Shed  about  the  poet's  way. 
Knelt  she  then,  in  golden  twilight, 

With  the  dews  upon  her  hair, 
And,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  heaven 

Breathed  her  thankfulness  in  prayer. 


LIFE.  289 

"  If  a  pilgrim  hath  been  shadowed 

By  a  tree  that  I  have  nursed ; 
If  a  cup  of  clear,  cold  water 

I  have  raised  to  lips  athirst ; 
If  I've  planted  one  sweet  flower 

By  an  else  too  barren  way ; 
If  I've  whispered  in  the  midnight 

One  sweet  word  to  tell  of  day ; 

"  If  in  one  poor  bleeding  bosom 

I  a  woe-swept  chord  have  stilled  ; 
If  a  dark  and  restless  spirit 

I  with  hope  of  heaven  have  filled  ; 
If  I've  made,  for  life's  hard  battle, 

One  faint  heart  grow  brave  and  strong  ;  — 
Then,  my  God,  I  thank  Thee,  bless  Thee, 

For  the  precious  boon  of  song." 

Life. 

JETHRO    C    CULMER. 


L( 


O,  it  is  night,  and  yonder  is  the  moon  — 
The  hilltops  rise  and  smile  ; 
And  the  deep  vale  lies  black  across  the  land. 
There  is  no  sound  or  song  — 
Naught  moving,  save  the  slowly  changing  light, 
And  now  an  errant  star,  wild  riding  down 
The  far-off  field  of  blue,  in  urgent  quest. 

O  my  vain  soul !  have  peace  — 
The  world  alone  is  mine,  and  I  would  grow 
As  a  tall  tree  into  the  heavenward  air, 


29O  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Knitting  my  roots  more  deeply  in  the  earth 
While  day  abounds  and  sunshine  warms  the  world 
Or,  when  the  darkness  and  the  blast  come  on, 
Stand  high  against  the  battling  storm,  and  know 
The  mighty  joy  of  bravery  — 
For  there  are  life  and  death,  and  life  is  mine, 
And  death  seems  far  away  —  a  sacred  thing. 


Memory's  Banquet. 

WILL   CUMBACK. 

I  AM  banqueting  to-night  — 
Not  with  wassail  and  with  wine, 
Not  with  eating  and  with  drinking, 

At  a  bacchanalian  shrine  ; 
For  in  my  lonely  chamber 

Where  the  shadows  and  the  light 
Are  quaintly  crossed  and  checkered  - 
There  I'm  banqueting  to-night. 

In  the  hush  and  in  the  stillness 

Of  the  quiet  midnight  hour, 
I  said  to  memory,  "  Bring  me 

The  best  you  have  in  store  ;  " 
And  the  feast  was  spread  before  me, 

And  the  present  took  her  flight, 
While  the  past  and  I  made  merry 

With  our  banqueting  to-night. 


MEMORY'S   BANQUET.  29 1 

All  sorrows  were  forbidden, 

No  grief  allowed  to  share ; 
Ingratitude  and  broken  faith 

Were  not  permitted  there  ; 
And  hate  and  haters  were  shut  out 

And  driven  from  my  sight, 
For  memory  had  her  orders 

For  the  banqueting  to-night. 

All  the  sunshine  hope  had  promised, 

And  the  joys  that  lasted  long  — 
All  the  love  that  filled  my  soul 

With  happiness  and  song, 
Sat  at  the  board  and  cheered  me, 

Making  life  a  great  delight, 
As  I  drank  the  cup  of  memory 

In  my  banqueting  to-night. 

And  the  comfort  and  the  kindness 

That  loving  hearts  have  given, 
Making  life  to  me  the  prelude 

Of  the  higher  joys  of  heaven; 
The  rich  old  wine,  the  vintage 

Of  the  years  that  took  their  flight, 
But  left  behind  their  sweetness, 

On  which  I  banquet  here  to-night. 


292  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Song  of  Steam. 


GEORGE    W.    CUTTER. 


HARNESS  me  down  with  your  iron  bands; 
Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein : 
For  I  scorn  the  power  of  your  puny  hands, 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 
How  I  laughed,  as  I  lay  concealed  from  sight 

For  many  a  countless  hour, 
At  the  childish  boast  of  human  might, 
And  the  pride  of  human  power. 

When  I  saw  an  army  upon  the  land, 

A  navy  upon  the  seas, 
Creeping  along,  a  snail-like  band, 

Or  waiting  the  wayward  breeze ; 
When  I  marked  the  peasant  faintly  reel, 

With  the  toil  which  he  daily  bore, 
As  he  feebly  turned  the  tardy  wheel, 

Or  tugged  at  the  weary  oar; 

When  I  measured  the  panting  courser's  speed, 

The  flight  of  the  carrier  dove, 
As  they  bore  the  law  a  king  decreed, 

Or  the  lines  of  impatient  love, 
I  could  not  but  think  how  the  world  would  feel, 

As  these  were  outstripped  afar, 
When  I  should  be  bound  to  the  rushing  keel, 

Or  chained  to  the  flying  car. 


WILLIAM    W.  PFRIMMER. 


SONG   OF   STEAM.  293 

Ha  !  ha  !  they  found  me  out  at  last ; 

They  invited  me  forth  at  length ; 
And  I  rushed  to  my  throne  with  a  thunder-blast, 

And  laughed  in  my  iron  strength. 

0  then  ye  saw  a  wondrous  change, 
On  the  earth  and  the  ocean  wide, 

Where  now  my  fiery  armies  range, 
Nor  wait  for  wind  or  tide. 

Hurra  !     Hurra  !     The  waters  o'er 

The  mountain's  steep  decline  ; 
Time  —  space  —  have  yielded  to  my  power  ; 

The  world  —  the  world  is  mine  ! 
The  rivers  the  sun  hath  earliest  blest, 

Or  those  where  his  beams  decline ; 
The  giant  streams  of  the  queenly  West, 

Or  the  Orient  floods  divine ! 

The  ocean  pales  where'er  I  sweep  — 

I  hear  my  strength  rejoice; 
And  the  monsters  of  the  briny  deep 

Cower,  trembling,  at  my  voice. 

1  carry  the  wealth  of  the  lord  of  earth, 

The  thoughts  of  his  godlike  mind  ; 
The  mind  lags  after  my  going  forth, 
The  lightning  is  left  behind. 

In  the  darksome  depths  of  the  fathomless  mine, 

My  tireless  arm  doth  play ; 
Where  the  rocks  never  saw  the  sun  decline, 

Or  the  dawn  of  the  glorious  day. 


294  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

I  bring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up 
From  the  hidden  caves  below, 

And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 
With  a  crystal  gush  o'erflow. 

I  blow  the  bellows,  I  forge  the  steel, 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade ; 
I  hammer  the  ore  and  turn  the  wheel 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made ; 
I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint ; 

I  carry,  I  spin,  I  weave, 
And  all  my  doings  I  put  in  print 

On  every  Saturday  eve. 

I've  no  muscle  to  weary,  no  breast  to  decay, 

No  bones  to  be  "  laid  on  the  shelf," 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  "  go  and  play," 

While  I  manage  this  world  myself. 
But  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein ; 
For  I  scorn  the  power  of  your  puny  hands, 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 


The  Bard. 

MRS.    IDA   MAY   DAVIS. 

HE  sang  no  joyful  lay  —  but  chanted  prayer, 
That  out  beyond  the  drear  to-day,  somewhere, 
Hope's  roses  might  be  budding  in  disguise 
To  burst  upon  the  morn  in  sweet  surprise. 


FOUNTAINS  OF  SONG.  295 

Thus  from  his  dream  of  love  and  trust  he  sang, 
And  thro'  the  world's  great  heart  the  music  rang. 

The  people  listen  as  they  pass  his  way, 

And  smile  unto  each  other  as  they  say, 

"  With  flowers  we'll  crown  him,  gold  and  red.r 
And  then  —  remember  not  the  words  they  said, 

Until  the  mystic  claim  of  silent  breath 

Has  won  him  life's  unfading  wreath. 


't> 


And  when  they  saw  his  face  they  softly  said, 
"We'll  deck  him  now  with  rue,  for  he  is  dead, 
And  sing  his  songs  in  honor  of  his  name." 
I  thought  in  sorrow  of  the  thing  called  fame, 
That  holds  from  hearts  the  love  for  which  they  wait, 
And  lays  the  flowers  at  their  feet,  too  late. 

Why  kiss  the  pallid  lips  that  cannot  speak  ? 

The  slender  thread  of  life  at  best  is  weak. 
Wait  not  until  the  lamp  is  burning  low  — 
Wait  not  for  winter  skies  and  Alpine  snow  — 

I  would  that  friends  wreath  not  my  icy  brow, 

If  you  have  roses  for  me,  bring  them  now. 


Fountains  of  Song. 

RICHARD   LEW   DAWSON. 

WOULD  you  then  sing 
With  such  rare  music  that  the  world  shall  pause 
And  lift  you  to  a  throne  of  warm  applause  ? 


296  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  would  you  bring 
The  mind  of  man  to  cherish  higher  things, 
And  know  the  soothing  touch  of  beauty's  wings  ? 

In  joy  depart 
Beyond  the  town  and  breathe  the  pure,  crisp  air, 
And  note  the  splendor  which  the  heavens  wear  ; 

Inspire  the  heart 
With  all  the  peace  and  charm  of  Nature's  green, 
Nor  let  one  dart  of  sorrow  shoot  between. 

But  if  you  think 
That  life  is  tasteless,  colorless,  and  bare, 
Go  down  and  drink  of  misery  and  care, 

And  on  the  brink 
Of  agony  look  over  into  hell, 
And  all  the  woes  of  life  and  death  foretell. 

No  need  to  soar 
Into  the  dark  and  deep  confines  of  space, 
But  only  read  your  friend's  or  neighbor's  face, 

An  open  door 
That  shows  fantastic  shapes  of  sun  or  storm, 
Music  or  wailing,  colors  cold  or  warm. 

Then  fondly  turn 
And  tune  the  sweet  and  mellow  harp  of  home. 
Above  your  dear  ones  build  the  fancy's  dome, 

In  words  that  burn  ; 
Light  up  the  ages  with  your  country's  praise, 
And  with  her  glory  set  the  world  ablaze. 


THE   HAUNTING   FACE.  297 

Expand  your  soul 
Within  the  boundless,  odorous  sea  of  love, 
And  as  his  sweet  and  mighty  waves  above 

Caressing  roll, 
Seek  no  escape,  but  hear  the  strain  he  sings, 
Ti\\j/our  song  with  its  richest  meaning  rings. 

For  love  is  all ! 
And  when  his  gleaming  tide  shall  overwhelm 
And  draw  you  into  his  enchanted  realm, 

On  you  shall  fall 
The  keen  prophetic  vision,  and  a  sign 
That  men  shall  know,  and  call  your  gift  divine ! 


The  Haunting  Face. 

RICHARD   LEW   DAWSON. 

LOVE  has  come  again  to  bless  me 
And  to  lead  me  from  the  gloom, 
And  her  lovely  eyes  possess  me 
With  a  sweeter  second  bloom  ; 
Yet  with  visions  of  to-morrow 

Comes  the  face  of  yesterday, 
And  a  sadness  and  a  sorrow 
That  I  cannot  put  away. 

When  I  thought  my  life  was  tainted, 
And  that  love  had  come  and  gone, 

Rose  a  royal  sun  that  painted 
All  my  sky  with  rosy  dawn ; 


298  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Yet  the  face  where  love  has  faded 
From  the  shadows  gazes  yet, 

And  my  happiness  is  shaded 
By  remembrance  and  regret. 

Oh  !  I  think  of  golden  tresses 

Gently  resting  on  my  breast, 
And  the  years  of  love's  caresses, 

Busy  years  so  tried  and  blest ; 
Of  the  songs  we  sang  together 

Thro'  the  summer  evenings  long, 
While  nor  storm  nor  winter  weather 

Stemmed  the  current  of  our  song ; 

Of  the  precious  hopes  that  bound  us, 

And  the  joys  and  griefs  we  knew ; 
Of  the  little  group  around  us 

With  their  charm  so  strange  and  new, 
How  we  fondly  watched  their  growing, 

And  their  pretty  words  and  ways, 
Asking  where  their  feet  were  going 

In  the  mystic  future  days. 

Yet  the  parting  word  is  spoken 

By  the  cold  lips  of  a  wife, 
And  the  dear  home  circle  broken, 

Tho'  it  was  my  all  of  life. 
Love  has  come  again  to  bless  me  — 

Yet  my  heavy  thoughts  will  stray, 
And  I  cannot  dispossess  me 

Of  the  dream  of  yesterday. 


BURIAL   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL.  299 

Sad  the  life  is  of  a  woman 

Stranded  on  a  loveless  shore, 
And  my  heart,  for  it  is  human, 

Is  with  deepest  pity  sore, 
And  in  spite  of  balms  is  bleeding 

For  the  loved,  unloving  eyes 
That  so  hopeless  gaze,  unheeding, 

Where  her  dreary  future  lies. 

Loved  and  lost,  a  hope  I  cherish, 

For  you  still  are  bright  and  true : 
Tho'  your  love  was  born  to  perish 

There  are  better  things  for  you ; 
Give  me  then  the  calmer  feeling, 

Let  me  hold  you  as  a  friend, 
And  the  blessed  balm  of  healing 

Shall  upon  our  lives  descend. 


Burial  of  the   Beautiful. 

JOHN   B.  DILLON. 

WHERE  shall  the  dead  and  the  beautiful  sleep  ? 
In  the  vale  where  the  willow  and  cypress  weep  ; 
Where  the  wind  of  the  west  breathes  its  softest  sigh, 
Where  the  silvery  stream  is  flowing  nigh, 
And  the  pure,  clear  drops  of  its  rising  sprays 
Glitter  like  gems  in  the  bright  moon's  rays  — 
Where  the  sun's  warm  smile  may  never  dispel 
Night's  tears  o'er  the  form  we  loved  so  well  — 


300  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

In  the  vale  where  the  sparkling  waters  flow ; 
Where  the  fairest,  earliest  violets  grow  ; 
Where  the  sky  and  the  earth  are  softly  fair ; 

Bury  her  there  —  bury  her  there  ! 

Where  shall  the  dead  and  the  beautiful  sleep  ? 
Where  wild  flowers  bloom  in  the  valley  deep  ; 
Where  the  sweet  robes  of  spring  may  softly  rest, 
In  purity,  over  the  sleeper's  breast ; 
Where  is  heard  the  voice  of  the  sinless  dove, 
Breathing  notes  of  deep,  undying  love ; 
Where  no  column  proud  in  the  sun  may  glow, 
To  mock  the  heart  that  is  resting  below ; 
Where  pure  hearts  are  sleeping  forever  blest ; 
Where  wandering  perii  love  to  rest ; 
Where  the  sky  and  the  earth  are  softly  fair, 

Bury  her  there  —  bury  her  there! 

Blind. 

MRS.    MAY   W.   DONNAN. 

REBELLIOUS  were  the  tears  she  shed, 
When  first  they  told  her  she  was  blind. 
"  Oh,  God,  if  I  were  only  dead  ! 

The  way  with  piercing  thorns  is  lined."  — 
A  road  so  dark  she  feared  to  tread, 

When  first  they  told  her  she  was  blind. 

But  clear  had  grown  the  inner  sight, 

When  last  they  told  her  she  was  blind; 
"  Lord,  all  that  comes  to  me  is  right ; 


GIVE   BACK,   O   CONQUERING   TIME!  301 

Thy  love  makes  smooth  the  path  I  find !  " 
Lo !  all  before  her  glowed  with  light, 
When  last  they  told  her  she  was  blind. 


Give  back,   O   Conquering  Time ! 

MRS.    AMANDA   L.    R.    DUFOUR. 

GIVE  back,  O  conquering  Time,  the  years 
Chained  captive  to  thy  chariot  wheels, 
That  erst  were  bright  with  Hope  and  Truth, 
The  vernal  years  of  Light  and  Youth, 
Untaught  by  Sorrow's  lessons  ruth, 
Unscourged  by  phantom  fears. 

Give  back,  unchanged,  those  halcyon  days, 
Give  back  the  tender,  earnest  faith, 
That  saw  beyond  life's  sunset  bars 
Temples  whose  pearl  domes  touched  the  stars, 
Kissed  e'en  the  lurid  crest  of  Mars, 

Proud  beacons  to  God's  praise  ! 

Give  back  the  paradise  of  Thought, 
Whose  winged  words  bore  Eden's  hue, 
Save  when  inspired  silence  reigned, 
By  such  rapt  eloquence  enchained, 
That  sound  or  language  had  profaned, 

Or  utter  madness  wrought. 


*»' 


Once  more  unseal  those  crystal  streams, 
Of  late  to  scoriae  rivers  turned  : 
Their  tantalizing  waves  of  stone 


302  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  thirsting  spirit  with  a  moan 
Essays  to  drink,  till  with  a  groan 
Sinks  in  nepenthe  dreams. 

Again  celestial  blooms  unfold, 

Whose  cultured  beauties  challenged  Fame, 
To  find  in  orient  clime  or  bower 
Odors  of  such  theurgic  power, 
That  heaven  seemed  prisoned  in  one  hour, 

Whose  bliss  could  ne'er  be  told. 

Give  back  the  charms  that  Psyche  wore, 
The  aurate  splendor  of  Love's  dawn, 

When  every  height  was  purple  crowned, 
O'er  which  no  tempest  ever  frowned, 
But  where  soft  echoes  would  rebound, 

Just  flown  through  Eden's  door. 

Ungird  the  fiery  cestus  care, 
Corroding  all  the  inner  life, 

Until  it  sees,  and  feels,  and  hears 
Naught  but  the  moan  of  dying  years, 
Naught  but  their  griefs  and  strifes  and  tears, 

Without  one  hope  or  prayer. 

'T  is  vain.     Inexorable  Time 
No  footsteps  ever  will  retrace, 
No  moment  ever  disinters. 
Across  the  Stygian  flood  there  whirrs 
No  backward  wing,  or  ever  stirs 

Its  waves  to  mortal  rhyme. 


BETTER   LATE  THAN  NEVER.  303 

Alas !  't  is  worse  than  vain,  't  is  sin 
To  mourn  the  pleasures  past  and  dead  : 
Whate'er  the  cross  the  present  bears, 
Whate'er  its  burdens,  pains,  or  cares, 
They're  to  the  trusting  soul  but  stairs, 

God's  mount  of  joy  to  win. 


Better  Late  than   Never. 

SIDNEY  DYER. 

LIFE  is  a  race  where  some  succeed 
While  others  are  beginning ; 
'T  is  luck  sometimes,  at  others,  speed, 

That  gives  an  early  winning. 
But  if  you  chance  to  fall  behind, 
Ne'er  slacken  your  endeavor  ; 
Just  keep  this  wholesome  truth  in  mind, 
'T  is  better  late  than  never. 

If  you  can  keep  ahead,  't  is  well ; 

But  never  trip  your  neighbor  ; 
'T  is  noble  when  you  can  excel 

By  honest,  patient  labor ; 
But  if  you  are  outstripped  at  last, 

Press  on  as  bold  as  ever ; 
Remember,  though  you  are  surpassed, 

'T  is  better  late  than  never. 


304  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The    Poet. 

ELIJAH   EVAN   EDWARDS. 

{From  "  Blifkins  and  the  Bard:'') 

THOUGH  he  may  claim  no  palace  gay  and  gilded, 
To  no  soft  couch  his  weary  limbs  be  given  ; 
Yet  in  the  sunlit  clouds  his  home  is  builded, 
And  curtained  with  the  tapestry  of  heaven. 

The  elements  do  love,  the  wild  winds  woo  him, 
With  words  that  duller  senses  may  not  hear ; 

Billows  and  breezes  chant  their  anthems  to  him, 
And  breathe  their  sweetest  secrets  in  his  ear. 

He  dreams  amidst  the  gorgeous  clouds  of  even, 
Its  kingly  halls  for  him  their  gates  unfold, 

He  feeds  upon  the  vital  air  of  heaven, 

He  drinks  the  sunset's  flashing  wine  of  gold. 

Wherever  mountains  rear  their  summits  hoary, 

Wherever  quiet  vales  in  beauty  sleep, 
Wherever  brimming  lakes  reflect  the  glory 

Of  sun  or  stars  in  their  abysses  deep  ; 

Wherever  cattle  graze  the  sunlit  meadows, 

Or  through  dim  forests  wild  deer  love  to  roam ; 

Where'er  the  sunlight  smiles,  or  gloam  the  shadows, 
Wherever  beauty  bides,  he  makes  his  home. 


AZRAEL.  305 

Thrust  him  in  prison,  it  becomes  a  palace  ; 

His  coarse  brown  bread,  a  dainty  rich  and  rare ; 
His  poor,  mean  drinking  cup,  a  golden  chalice ; 

His  chain,  an  ornament  a  king  might  wear. 

However  rude  his  lot,  however  lowly, 

He  makes  it  paradise,  and  evermore 
Basks  in  the  sunlight,  pure,  serene,  and  holy, 

Lark-like,  his  highest  joy  to  sing  and  soar. 


Azrael. 

ORPHEUS   EVERTS. 

NO  matter  what  the  tie  that  binds 
The  human  heart  to  earthly  things, 
No  pitying  tear  the  Angel  blinds, 

Who  hovers  near  on  dusky  wings. 
The  Angel  who,  with  damp,  cold  breath, 
Dissolves  all  ties  —  the  Angel,  Death  ! 

I  saw  a  mother,  young  and  fair, 

A  first-born  babe  hold  to  her  breast. 

I  said,  "  Ah,  surely,  Time  will  spare 
A  tie  so  strong,  so  pure,  so  blest." 

I  looked  again.     In  blank  despair 

The  mother  sat !     No  child  was  there  ! 

I  saw  a  youth  and  maiden  stand 

Beneath  full-blooming  orchard  boughs. 

T  was  early  spring,  and  hand  in  hand, 
With  lips  to  lips  they  sealed  love's  vows. 


306  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

But  when  the  orchard  blossoms  fell 
The  maiden  mourned  her  loss  as  well. 

I  saw  a  woman  proudly  gaze, 

Self-worshiping,  on  mirrored  charms. 

Superb  she  seemed,  above  all  praise, 
Scornful  of  time  and  Death's  alarms. 

I  looked  again.     The  glass  betrayed 

Her  form  in  burial  robes  arrayed. 

I  saw  a  man  who,  day  by  day, 

Had  toiling  climbed  a  mountain  height, 

And  stood  alone  where  glittering  lay 
The  ore  that  charmed  his  eager  sight. 

With  greedy  hands  he  grasped  the  ore, 

But  stumbling,  fell  to  rise  no  more. 

Nor  maiden's  love,  nor  mother's  tears, 
Nor  beauty's  charms,  nor  glare  of  gold, 

Can  stay  the  wings  of  flying  years, 
Nor  tyrant  Time  bribe  to  withhold 

The  Angel  who,  with  damp,  cold  breath, 

Dissolves  all  ties  —  the  Angel,  Death. 

1880. 


Fantasia. 

ORPHEUS   EVERTS. 

WOULD  he  awake  were  I  to  kiss  him  now  ?  — 
Were  I  to  stoop  and  taste  his  perfumed  breath  — 
That  silent  witness  telling  life  from  death  — 
And  press  my  aspiration  on  his  brow  ? 


FANTASIA.  30; 

Should  he  awake  and  open  wide  his  eyes, 

Would  not  his  soul  outflashing  smite  my  own, 
As  smote  the  sunlight  Egypt's  fabled  stone, 

And  all  the  air  vibrate  with  glad  surprise  ? 

Or  should  his  hands  untaught,  instinctive,  move 
And  touch  the  cords  so  strained  within  my  breast, 
Would  not  those  strings  by  his  pure  hands  caressed, 

Flood  all  my  soul  with  music  born  of  love  ? 

I  wonder  what  his  thoughts  are :  if  his  dreams 
May  not  be  memories  of  whence  he  came  — 
That  fade  from  birth,  as  fades  the  moon's  pale  flame 

Before  the  sun's  all-conquering  burnished  beams ! 

How  strange  to  him  life's  language :  harsh  its  words; 
His  tender  lips  have  not  yet  learned  to  frame 
Love's  shibboleth  ;  disarming  with  a  name 

The  sentinels  that  guard  Love's  waterfords. 

How  sweet  the  task  ;  how  sacred,  too,  the  trust ; 

To  watch  his  growth  and  guide  his  wayward  feet ! 

O  life !  O  world  !  where  heaven  and  hell  so  meet ! 
Must  he,  too,  suffer,  learning  love  from  lust  ? 

O  sacred  Image! — though  with  veil  withdrawn 
Long  have  I  gazed,  my  eyes  have  not  profaned ; 
And  still  I  worship !  .  .  .     But  the  moon  hath  waned, 

And  morning  fleet  pursues  the  flying  dawn. 


308  POETS   AND  POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

(To  the  Mother.) 

The  secret  currents  of  our  lives  have  met 

And  mingled  :  —  in  him  henceforth  as  one  to  flow, 
However  deep  or  silent.     This  we  know. 

What  more  ?     Ah  me  !  so  blind  !  we  know  not  yet ! 


Advertisement  for  a  Wife. 

JOHN   FINLEY. 

YE  fair  ones  attend!  I've  an  offer  to  make  ye ; 
In  Hymen's  soft  bands  I  am  anxious  to  live; 
"  For  better,  for  worse,"  a  companion  I'll  take  me, 
Provided  she  fills  the  description  I  give. 

I  neither  expect  nor  can  hope  for  perfection, 
For  that  never  yet  was  a  bachelor's  lot ; 

But  choosing  a  wife,  I  would  make  a  selection 
Which  many  in  my  situation  would  not. 

I'd  have  — let  me  see  —  no,  I'd  not  have  a  beauty, 
For  beautiful  women  are  apt  to  be  vain  ; 

Yet,  with  a  small  share  I  would  think  it  a  duty 
To  take  her,  be  thankful,  and  never  complain. 

Her  form  must  be  good,  without  art  to  constrain  it, 
And  rather  above  than  below  middle  size ; 

A  something  —  (it  puzzles  my  brain  to  explain  it), 
Like  eloquent  language,  must  flow  from  her  eyes. 


CLOUDS.  309 

She  must  be  well-bred,  or  I  could  not  respect  her, 
Good-natured  and  modest,  but  not  over  coy  ; 

Her  mind  well  informed  —  'tis  the  purified  nectar 
That  sweetens  the  cup  of  hymeneal  joy. 

Her  home  she  must  love  and  domestic  employment, 
Have  practical  knowledge  of  household  affairs ; 

And  make  it  a  part  of  her  highest  enjoyment 
To  soften  my  troubles  and  lighten  my  cares. 

Her  age  I  would  have  at  the  least  to  be  twenty, 
But  not  to  exceed  twenty-five  at  the  most ; 

And  girls  of  that  age  being  everywhere  plenty, 
I  hope  to  get  one  of  the  numerous  host. 

No  fortune  I  ask,  for  I've  no  predilection 

For  glitter  and  show,  or  the  pomp  of  high  life ; 

I  wish  to  be  bound  by  the  cords  of  affection  : 
And  now  I  have  drawn  you  a  sketch  of  a  wife. 

Whoever  possesses  the  said  requisitions, 

And  fain  would  be  bound  with  the  conjugal  band, 

Will  please  to  step  forward  —  she  has  the  conditions; 
"  Inquire  of  the  printer  ;  "  I'm  always  at  hand. 

Clouds. 

WILLIAM    DUDLEY    FOULKE. 

YES,  the  smiling  clouds  are  angels, 
Angels  of  the  air  ; 
On  the  path  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Peri  bright  and  fair. 


310  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

They  are  messengers  of  plenty, 

Raining  happy  harvests  down  ; 

Now  they  gild  the  skies  of  sunset, 
Now  the  hoary  hills  they  crown. 

Forms  fantastic,  visions  rare, 

Flit  and  hover  ever  in  the  air. 

Now  they  vaunt  the  pride  of  armies, 

Marching  with  the  gale  ; 
Now  they  breathe  in  rainy  darkness 

Sorrow's  plaintive  tale ; 
Now  they  come,  the  moon's  attendants, 

Following  the  steps  of  love  ; 
Now  they  speak  in  gloomy  thunders, 

Direful  wrath  of  gods  above. 
Human  passions,  dark  and  fair, 
Pictured  by  the  angels  of  the  air. 

Yonder  is  a  cloudy  palace, 

Just  a  minute  old  — 
Roof  of  pearl  and  walls  of  silver, 

Pillars  bright  with  gold  ; 
Now  it  is  a  mighty  mountain, 

Towering  tall  and  grim  and  high  ; 
Now,  like  forms  of  shadowy  dreamland, 

All  go  flitting,  flitting  by. 
Lights  of  joy  and  shades  of  care, 
Chasing  one  another  through  the  air. 

Colors  rich  in  cloudy  beauty 
To  the  earth  are  given, 


w 


SAPPHICS.  3 1 1 

But  the  brightest  hues  are  cherished 

For  the  eye  of  heaven. 
Like  those  angels  of  the  sunlight, 

Is  the  heart  of  one  I  love ; 
Dear  she  is  to  all  around  her, 

Dearer  yet  to  One  above. 
Sweet  to  us,  yet  passing  fair 
To  that  keen  Eye  that  searchest  everywhere. 


Sapphics. 

WILLIAM    DUDLEY   FOULKE. 

"There  had  /Eneas  perished,  King  of  men, 
Had  not  Jove's  daughter,  Venus,  quick  perceived 
His  peril  imminent."  —  COWPER'S  Iliad,  V.  360. 

ET   with   white   foam-flakes,    and   with    dew   of 
morning, 


Breathing  forth  desire  from  their  eager  nostrils, 
Stand  the  steeds,  fire-eyed,  and  with  feet  impatient, 
Aching  for  combat. 

All  around  were  hosts  of  the  stern  Achaians, 
All  around  were  hosts  of  the  valiant  Trojans, 
While  above  were  gathered  the  gods  of  heaven, 
Silence  was  on  them. 

Silence  deep  and  dread  as  when  clouds  of  heaven 
Roll  together,  pause  for  the  fiery  combat, 
Pause,  ere  red  flames  flash,  and  the  crash  of  thunders 
Shivers  the  darkness. 


312  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

So  the  great  gods,  having  Olympian  dwellings, 
Pause  a  space  to  rest  for  the  red  encounter, 
So  the  heroes  haughtily  charioted 
Stay  for  a  season.     • 

Rings  the  loud  lash  !     Wild  as  the  waves  of  ocean 
Leap  those  flaming  steeds,  as  a  hungry  tiger, 
Crouched  long  time  in  rushes  and  grass  in  silence, 
Leaps  on  his  victim. 

Now  iEneas,  flushed  with  the  dawn  of  battle, 
Joyful  speeds  to  cope  with  the  brave  Tydides ; 
Him  he  spied  afar  in  his  might  rejoicing, 
Smiting  the  Trojans. 

Then  the  heroes,  shouting  a  noise  of  battle, 
Joined  in  conflict.     High  from  the  earth  Tydides 
Raised  a  great  rock,  hurled  it  against  the  Trojan, 
Smote  him  with  darkness. 

Now  ^Eneas,  fallen  to  earth,  had  perished, 
Save  that  Venus,  darling  of  Jove,  espied  him. 
She  in  white  arms  gently  her  dear  son  lifting, 
Bore  him  from  battle. 

Foam-born  mother  !  so  unto  us  descending, 
Worn  with  toil,  and  labor,  and  dust  of  battle, 
Bear  us  up  on  white  arms  of  love,  and  grant  us 
Rest  on  thy  bosom. 


PURITY.  313 

Counting  the   Cost. 

STRICKLAND   W.    GILLILAN. 

TO  make  one  little  golden  grain 
Requires  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
The  hoarded  richness  of  the  sod  — 

And  God. 

To  form  and  tint  one  lovely  flower 
That  lives  to  bless  for  one  short  hour 
Doth  need  the  skies,  the  clouds  above  — 

And  Love. 

To  make  one  life  tJiafs  wJiite  and  good, 
Fit  for  this  human  brotherhood, 
Demands  the  toil  of  weary  years  — 

And  tears. 

Purity. 

SAMUEL   B.   GOOKINS. 

"  Unto  the  pure  all  things  are  pure,  but  unto  them  that  are  defiled  and  un> 
believing  is  nothing  pure." —  Paul  to  Titus. 

IN  the  lone  silence  of  the  woodland  dell, 
Unseen  by  man,  by  busy  feet  untrod, 
Where  the  deep  fountains  of  the  forest  dwell 
(Like  pearls  in  amber  set)  in  mossy  sod, 
The  timid  fallow  comes  to  slake  his  thirst. 
Reflected  from  the  tiny  lake,  he  sees 
A  form  of  beauty's  own,  —  the  clear,  dark  eye, 


314  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  taper  ears,  the  graceful  curved  neck, 
Incipient  antlers,  promise  of  his  power. 
Stooping  to  test  the  moss-enameled  fount, 
The  mirrored  image,  from  the  crystal  depth, 
Hastens  to  meet  him  at  the  flowery  brink, 
And  there  salutes  him  with  a  dainty  kiss. 
(Hist !  drop  no  pebble  !  lest  it  fright  the  deer, 
And  circling  wavelets  wash  the  picture  out.) 

But  if  some  monster  of  the  forest  wild, 
The  shaggy  bison  or  the  vengeful  boar, 
With  filthy  wallowings  hath  fouled  the  spring, 
No  form  of  beauty  meets  the  deer's  soft  eye, 
And  from  the  noisome  pool  he  turns  away. 

So  when  the  Lord  of  Life  with  loving  gaze 
Explores  the  deep  recesses  of  the  soul, 
If  purified  by  His  all-cleansing  grace ; 
If  charity  has  purged  it  of  its  mire ; 
If  faith,  through  which  the  unseen  is  beheld, 
Hath  wrought  by  love  and  purified  the  heart,  — 
Then  all  the  lineaments  of  the  form  Divine 
Are  seen  reflected  from  the  pearly  depths, 
And  He  rejoiceth,  like  as  doth  the  groom 
When  soul-lit  grace  adorns  the  new-found  bride. 

But,  if  within  the  precincts  of  the  soul 
Its  great,  malignant  enemy  hath  crept ; 
If  divers  gods  have  got  possession  there ; 
If  hateful  lust  and  covetous  desire, 
If  vain  contempt  for  that  atoning  blood, 


APOSTROPHE  TO   MILTON.  31  5 

Which  cancels  sin  and  clarifies  the  soul, 
Have  fouled  it  with  their  vile  imaginings, 
No  form  of  heavenly  grace  is  mirrored  forth 
To  meet  the  tender,  sweet,  and  loving  gaze ; 
Sadly  He  turns,  and  with  Divine  disgust 
Leaves  the  foul  spirit  to  its  chosen  lust. 


Apostrophe  to  Milton. 

JONATHAN   W.    GORDON. 

BARD  of  my  soul,  thy  hallowed  song  sublime 
Uplifts  my  feebler  strain,  and  rises  high  ; 
The  vast  variety  and  depth  of  thought, 
That  flow  commingled  in  thy  matchless  verse, 
Anew  and  deep  I  drink  —  drink  from  the  fount 
Prepared  of  God,  rich  to  the  mental  taste, 
But  tasted  not  before  I  drank  with  thee, 
O  bard  of  deathless  fame !     Now  by  thy  wing 
Directed,  I  through  climes  unknown  am  borne, 
And  guided  to  the  spring  whence  song  bursts  forth. 
Thence  let  me  drink  !  to  taste  and  drink  not  deep, 
O  powers  immortal !  may  I  ever  scorn  ; 
Still  choosing  rather  to  be  naught  than  aught 
Inferior  to  the  bard  whose  genius  vast, 
And  venturous  as  vast,  of  chaos,  death 
And  night,  with  voice  untrembling,  sang. 


3l6  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The   Interpreter. 

LEE   O.    HARRIS. 

A   THOUGHT  sped  through  the  land, 
On  swift  and  airy  wing, 
And  none  could  grasp  or  understand 

The  bright  inconstant  thing. 
Some  said,  "  It  is  of  pleasure  born," 

And  some,  "  'T  is  child  of  pain." 
"  'T  is  joyous  as  a  summer  morn  ;" 

"  'T  is  sad  as  midnight  rain." 
"Who  will  interpret  it?"  they  cried, 

"  This  airy  thing  that  mocks  us  so  ?  " 
"Alas ! "  they  each  to  each  replied, 

"We  feel,  but  do  not  know." 

Then  Music  took  her  shell 

And  blew  so  sweet  a  strain, 
The  Thought  was  prisoned  by  the  spell, 

And  bound  as  with  a  chain. 
"  Behold  !  "  they  cried,  "  the  charm  is  found  : 

Bring  gems  and  gold  to  her 
Who  holdeth  in  melodious  sound 

The  Thought's  interpreter." 
And  all  the  people  ran  with  speed 

Their  richest  offerings  to  bestow  — 
"  Alas  !  "  they  cried,  "  the  sounds  recede ; 

We  hear,  but  do  not  know." 

Then  God-like  Sculpture  smote 

The  rock  before  his  face, 
And  on  its  polished  surface  wrote 

In  lines  of  living  grace. 


THE   INTERPRETER.  3  I  7 

"  The  mystery  is  here,"  they  said, 

"  The  Thought  is  carved  in  stone  ;" 
And  came  with  bared  and  bended  head, 

Like  vassals  to  a  throne. 
"  Well  hath  the  sculptor  won  the  prize," 

They  cried.  —  "  But  still  it  mocks  us  so ! 
There  hangs  a  veil  before  our  eyes  — 

We  see,  but  do  not  know." 

Then  Painting  next  essayed 

To  catch  the  flitting  thing, 
And  on  his  magic  canvas  spread 

All  hues  that  tint  the  spring. 
And  men  were  eager  to  behold, 

And  Rumor  mouthed  his  name, 
And  willing  thousands  brought  their  gold 

To  fill  his  crown  of  fame. 
But  as  they  gazed  they,  sighing,  said, 

"  Alas  !  must  it  be  ever  so  ? 
The  Thought  is  uninterpreted, 

For  still  we  do  not  know." 


An  humble  poet  wrought 

Beside  his  sick  child's  bed, 
And  all  men  read,  and  lo !  the  Thought 

At  last  interpreted ! 
Its  sweetness  gladdened  all  the  land, 

And  cheered  the  heart  like  wine. 
The  poet  kissed  the  poor,  dead  hand, 

That  stung  his  lips  with  brine  ; 


3l8  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  on  his  lonely  way  he  sighed, 
For  men  went  by  him  with  a  smile. 

"  What  hath  the  poet  earned  ?  "  they  cried, 
"  We  knew  it  all  the  while" 


Flotsam. 

MRS.   IRENE   BOYNTON   HAWLEY. 

BEHOLD  the  debris  on  the  river's  breast, 
Dimpling  the  eddies  of  its  limpid  floor ; 
Some  freak  of  current  severs  from  the  rest 
A  fated  log  and  strands  it  on  the  shore, 
A  garniture  of  moss  and  mold  to  don, 
While  the  bright  wave  in  gladness  dances  on. 

But  Nature,  ever  just,  requital  saves 

From  the  rich  garners  of  her  varied  store. 

That  anchor'd  drift,  abandoned  of  the  waves, 
Becomes  a  poem  on  that  lonely  shore, 

Fashioned  by  elfin  elements  grotesque, 

Into  an  object,  lovely,  picturesque. 


To  grace  its  sides  the  odd  brown  fungi  lend 

Their  shapes  and  color,  and  green  mosses  drape 

Its  rugged  form,  while  fern  fronds  curl  and  bend 
Within  its  shadow,  and  shy  insects  make 

Their  curious  homes,  and  from  rude  light  secrete 

Their  timid  selves,  within  its  cool  retreat. 


FLOTSAM.  319 

Within  its  clefts  are  grasses  that  but  need 
Moisture  to  nourish  waving  plumy  crests ; 

Here  saucy  songsters  gorge  their  ravenous  greed, 
And  rifle  barky  floss  to  line  their  nests. 

At  this  quaint  shrine  artists  their  dreams  inspire, 

And  lovers  loiter,  fanning  fancy's  fire. 

Now — might  I  dare  comparison  to  make 
Between  that  river  flotsam  and  my  life, 

Thwarted  ambition  still  might  comfort  take 
In  its  restricted  plane,  perhaps  as  rife 

With  chances  similar,  the  soul  to  dress 

With  moss  of  love  and  fronds  of  usefulness. 


If  I  might  hope  an  alchemy  divine 

Could  transmute  dews  of  grief  and  suns  of  pain, 
To  that  sweet  verdure  and  that  foliage  fine 

That  hides  decay,  and  covers  age  and  stain, 
If  seeds  of  spiritual  graces  but  abide 
In  drifts  of  fate  —  I  would  be  satisfied. 


Patience,  my  soul !  and  vain  desires,  be  still ! 

Draw  wisely  from  surrounding  atmospheres 
The  aliment  of  peace  and  grace — distill 

A  chrism  of  blessing  from  thy  vase  of  tears. 
Take  from  the  hand  of  life  the  full  cup  sent, 
And  quaff  its  wave,  a  sacred  sacrament ! 


320  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Religion  and   Doctrine. 

JOHN    HAY. 

HE  stood  before  the  Sanhedrim  ; 
The  scowling  rabbis  gazed  at  him. 
He  recked  not  of  their  praise  or  blame ; 
There  was  no  fear,  there  was  no  shame, 
For  one  upon  whose  dazzled  eyes 
The  whole  world  poured  its  vast  surprise. 
The  open  heaven  was  far  too  near, 
His  first  day's  light  too  sweet  and  clear, 
To  let  him  waste  his  new-gained  ken 
On  the  hate-clouded  face  of  men. 

But  still  they  questioned,  Who  art  thou  ? 

What  hast  thou  been  ?     What  art  thou  now  ? 

Thou  art  not  he  who  yesterday 

Sat  there  and  begged  beside  the  way  — 

For  he  was  blind. 

And  I  am  lie  ; 

For  I  was  blind,  but  now  I  see. 

He  told  the  story  o'er  and  o'er ; 
It  was  his  full  heart's  only  lore  : 
A  prophet,  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
Had  touched  his  sightless  eyes  with  clay, 
And  made  him  see  who  had  been  blind. 
Their  words  passed  by  him  like  the  wind 
Which  raves  and  howls,  but  cannot  shock 
The  hundred-fathom-rooted  rock. 


FORM   WORSHIP.  321 

Their  threats  and  fury  all  went  wide ; 
They  could  not  touch  his  Hebrew  pride. 
Their  sneers  at  Jesus  and  His  band, 
Their  boasts  of  Moses  and  his  Lord, 
All  could  not  change  him  by  one  word. 

/  know  not  what  this  man  may  be, 
Sinner  or  saint ;  b?it  as  for  me, 
One  thing  I  know,  that  I  am  he 
Who  once  was  blind,  and  now  I  see. 

They  all  were  doctors  of  renown, 
The  great  men  of  the  famous  town, 
With  deep  brows,  wrinkled,  broad,  and  wise, 
Beneath  their  wide  phylacteries ; 
The  wisdom  of  the  East  was  theirs, 
And  honor  crowned  their  silver  hairs. 
The  man  they  jeered  and  laughed  to  scorn 
Was  unlearned,  poor,  and  humbly  born ; 
But  he  knew  better  far  than  they 
What  came  to  him  that  Sabbath  day ; 
And  what  the  Christ  had  done  for  him 
He  knew  and  not  the  Sanhedrim. 


Form  Worship. 

ENOS   B.    HEINEY. 

THERE  was  a  saint,  —  so  runs  a  legend  old, 
A  holy  man  of  God,  who,  day  by  day, 
Toiled  for  the  flock  within  his  little  fold, 
And  led  his  people  in  the  narrow  way. 


322  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Although  they  did  not  fairly  understand 

His  words  of  wisdom  and  his  fervent  prayers, 

They  loved  and  reverenced  him  through  all  the  land 
And  sought  his  counsel  when  o'erwhelmed  with  cares. 

It  came  to  pass  one  night  that  as  he  dreamed 

He  saw  a  glorious  vision  in  the  skies : 
Three  bars  of  sunlight  round  about  him  beamed, 

And  written  on  them,  just  before  his  eyes, 
Were  all  the  truths  of  God,  so  long  concealed 

From  human  wisdom  —  truths  for  which  his  soul 
For  years  had  yearned  in  vain  were  now  revealed. 

He  read,  and  waking  wrote  them  on  a  scroll. 

Next  night  a  message  came  :  "  O  saint,  prepare 

To  teach  the  world  the  truths  which  thou  hast  read." 
Three  days  he  spent  in  fasting  and  in  prayer ; 

Then  calling  all  his  people  to  him,  said  : 
"  Brethren,  I  go  away,  but  leave  with  you 
The  precious  truths  of  God  revealed  to  me 
And  written  on  this  parchment  —  read  it  through ; 
Live  by  it,  brethren,  it  will  make  you  free." 

For  many  years  this  saint,  this  holy  man, 

Journeyed  and  taught  nor  rested  day  nor  night, 
And  thousands  who  had  been  beneath  the  ban 

Of  ignorance  and  doubt,  received  the  light. 
At  last,  with  faltering  step  and  palsied  hand 

Which  told  of  earthly  labors  nearly  done. 
He  turned  his  face  again  unto  the  land 

Where  all  his  deeds  of  mercy  were  begun. 


ALTER   EGO.  323 

It  came  to  pass  that,  as  he  neared  the  place, 

He  saw  the  people  prostrate  in  the  dust 
Before  an  altar.     Joy  illumed  his  face. 

He  said  :  "  My  people  worship  God  the  Just." 
He  nearer  drew.     Upon  the  altar  lay 

The  roll  of  parchment  still  securely  sealed. 
His  flock  had  worshiped  it  from  day  to  day, 

But  searched  it  not  for  truths  within  revealed. 


Alter   Ego. 

BENJAMIN   DAVENPORT   HOUSE. 

IF  my  freed  soul  were  of  its  sins  forgiven, 
And  Azrael,  at  its  side,  escorting  flew, 
To  guide  it  straightway  to  the  realm  of  heaven, 
I  should  compel  his  flight  with  it  to  you. 

And  pausing  there,  refuse  his  further  leading, 
And  he  from  thence  alone  his  flight  should  wend, 

For  I  would  prove  to  him,  through  love's  strong  plead- 
in  cr 
That  I  had  reached  my  journey's  utmost  end. 

And  lingering  there,  perhaps  without  your  knowing, 
Until  your  eyes  should  close  in  life's  eclipse, 

My  kiss,  when  yours  to  find  my  soul  was  going, 
Should  meet  it  at  the  portals  of  your  lips. 


324  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 


A  Cynic. 

HORACE  F.  HUBBARD. 

I  HEARD  one  say :  He  knows  not  how  to  sing 
The  song  that  moves  the  simple  heart, 
And  makes  its  cares  still  some  of  joy  to  bring 
To  him  who  acts  an  humble  part. 

Ah  me  !     I  trust  there  is  not  all  of  truth 

In  what  I  hear  the  cynic  say, 
Whose  love  of  hate  and  hate  of  love,  in  sooth, 

Would  thwart  the  robin's  roundelay. 

For  in  a  simple  heart  he  has  no  faith, 
Yet  of  it  prates  with  vainest  pride ; 

And  every  word  that  from  his  lips  he  saith 
In  depth  of  heart  he  would  deride. 

He'd  tell  me  that  the  far-off  purple  haze 

I  see  upon  the  mountain  side, 
In  dreamy,  halcyon  Indian-summer  days, 

If  I  draw  near  will  not  abide. 


He  hears  no  music  in  the  children's  play, 
Nor  in  the  mother's  cradle  song ; 

He  sees  no  tender  picture  in  the  way 
The  sweet  babe  smiles  its  robes  among. 


ANNIE   FELLOWS  JOHNSTON. 


AT  A  TENEMENT   WINDOW.  325 

The  cry  of  wild  bird  startled  from  its  nest, 
As  roams  he  through  the  woods  at  will, 

Awakes  no  other  thought  within  his  breast 
Than  this  :  the  fleeing  bird  to  kill. 

But  haply  he  may  yet  some  sunny  day, 

As  to  a  greater  Power  he  yields, 
Feel  how,  like  Falstaff,  he  has  missed  the  way, 

And,  dying,  babble  of  green  fields. 


At  a  Tenement  Window. 

MRS.   ANNIE   FELLOWS   JOHNSTON. 

SOMETIMES    my    needle    stops    with    half-drawn 
thread 
(Not    often    though, — each    moment's    waste     means 

bread, 
And  missing  stitches  leave  the  little  mouths  unfed). 
I  look  down  on  the  dingy  court  below : 
A  tuft  of  grass  is  all  it  has  to  show,  — 
A  broken  pump,  where  thirsty  children  go. 
Above,  there  shines  a  bit  of  sky  so  small 
That  it  might  be  a  passing  bluebird's  wing. 

One  tree  leans  up  against  the  high  brick  wall, 
And  there  the  sparrows  twitter  of  the  spring, 
Until  they  waken  in  my  heart  a  cry 
Of  hunger,  that  no  bread  can  satisfy. 

Always  before,  when  Maytime  took  her  way 
Across  the  fields,  I  followed  close.     To-day 


326  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

I  can  but  dream  of  all  her  bright  array. 

My  work  drops  down.     Across  the  sill  I  lean, 

And  long,  with  bitter  longing,  for  unseen 

Rain-freshened  paths,  where  budding  woods  grow  green. 

The  water  trickles  from  the  pump  below 
Upon  the  stones.     With  eyes  half  shut,  I  hear 

It  falling  in  a  pool  where  rushes  grow, 
And  feel  a  cooling  presence  drawing  near. 
And  now  the  sparrows  chirp  again.     No,  hark  !  — 
A  singing  as  of  some  far  meadow  lark. 

It  is  the  same  old  miracle  applied 
Unto  myself,  that  on  the  mountain-side 
The  few  small  loaves  and  fishes  multiplied. 
Behold  how  strange  and  sweet  the  mystery  ! 
The  birds,  the  broken  pump,  the  gnarled  tree, 
Have  brought  the  fullness  of  the  spring  to  me. 

For  in  the  leaves  that  rustle  by  the  wall 
All  forest  finds  a  tongue,  and  so  that  grass 

Can,  with  its  struggling  tuft  of  green,  recall 
Wide  bloom-filled  meadows  where  the  cattle  pass. 
How  it  can  be  but  dimly  I  divine, 
These  crumbs,  God-given,  make  the  whole  loaf  mine. 


"  The  Way  of  the  World." 

MRS.   D.    M.   JORDAN. 

THERE  are  beautiful  songs  that  we  never  sing, 
And  names  that  are  never  spoken; 
There  are  treasures  guarded  with  jealous  care, 


"THE  WAY   OF  THE   WORLD."  327 

And  kept  as  a  sacred  token  ; 
There  are  faded  flowers,  and  letters  dim 

With  tears  that  have  rained  above  them 
For  the  fickle  words  and  the  faithless  hearts 

That  taught  us  how  to  love  them. 

There  are  sighs  that  come  in  our  joyous  hours 

To  chasten  our  dreams  of  gladness, 
And  tears  that  spring  to  our  aching  eyes 

In  moments  of  thoughtful  sadness ; 
For  the  blithest  bird  that  sings  in  spring 

Will  flit  with  the  waning  summer, 
And  lips  that  we  kissed  in  fondest  love 

Will  smile  on  the  first  newcomer. 

Over  the  breast  where  lilies  rest 

In  white  hands,  stilled  forever, 
The  roses  of  June  will  nod  and  blow, 

Unheeding  the  hearts  that  sever ; 
And  lips  that  quiver  in  silent  grief, 

All  words  of  hope  refusing, 
Will  lightly  turn  to  the  fleeting  joys 

That  perish  with  the  using. 

Summer  blossoms  and  winter  snows, 

Love  and  its  sweet  elysian, 
Hope,  like  a  siren  dim  and  fair, 

Quickening  our  fainting  vision  ; 
Drooping  spirit  and  failing  pulse, 

Where  untold  memories  hover ; 
Eyelids  touched  with  the  seal  of  death  — 

And  the  fitful  dream  is  over. 


328  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Men  Told  Me,   Lord. 

DAVID   STARR  JORDAN. 

MEN  told  me,  Lord,  it  was  a  vale  of  tears 
Where  Thou  hadst  placed  me,  wickedness  and 
woe 
My  twain  companions  whereso  I  might  go  ; 
That  I  through  ten  and  three-score  weary  years 
Should  stumble  on,  beset  by  pains  and  fears, 
Fierce  conflict  round  me,  passions  hot  within, 
Enjoyment  brief  and  fatal  but  in  sin. 

When  all  was  ended  then  should  I  demand 
Full  compensation  from  Thine  austere  hand ; 
For  't  is  Thy  pleasure,  all  temptation  past, 
To  be  not  just  but  generous  at  last. 

Lord,  here  am  I,  my  three-score  years  and  ten 
All  counted  to  the  full ;  I've  fought  Thy  fight, 
Crossed   Thy  dark   valleys,   scaled   Thy   rocks'    harsh 

height, 
Borne  all  Thy  burdens  Thou  dost  lay  on  men 
With  hand  unsparing,  three-score  years  and  ten. 
Before  Thee  now  I  make  my  claim,  O  Lord  ! 
What  shall  I  pray  Thee  as  a  meet  reward  ? 

I  ask  for  nothing.     Let  the  balance  fall ! 
All  that  I  am  or  know  or  may  confess 
But  swells  the  weight  of  mine  indebtedness  ; 
Burdens  and  sorrows  stand  transfigured  all ; 
Thy  hand's  rude  buffet  turns  to  a  caress, 


TO  THE   GENIUS   OF  THE   WEST.  329 

For  Love,  with  all  the  rest,  Thou  gavest  me  here, 
And  Love  is  Heaven's  very  atmosphere. 
Lo  !  I  have  dwelt  with  Thee,  Lord.     Let  me  die. 
I  could  no  more  through  all  Eternity. 


To  the  Genius  of  the  West. 

ISAAC   H.    JULIAN. 

O  GENIUS  of  "my  own,  my  native  land"! 
Majestic,  glorious  presence  of  my  dreams, 
I  own  the  impulse  of  thy  guiding  hand, 

I  hail  the  light  upon  thy  brow  that  gleams 
Dear  and  familiar  as  the  sun's  first  beams ! 

For  thou  didst  smile  upon  my  life's  first  dawn ; 
A  child,  lone-wandering  by  thy  quiet  streams, 

Far  from  the  vain  and  noisy  crowd  withdrawn, 
Thy  partial  glance  didst  mark  and  seal  me  as  thy  own. 

Thou  bad'st  me  tune  with  joy  my  rustic  reed, 

While  smiling  love  and  fancy  led  the  strain  ; 
And  first  my  willing  voice,  as  thou  decreed, 

Essayed  to  sing  the  glories  of  thy  reign. 
Since,  wandering  wide  out  o'er  thy  broad  domain, 

Thy  presence  still  has  cheered  me  on  my  way, 
And,  'mid  those  vaster  scenes,  didst  thou  again 

Inspire  a  higher  and  a  sadder  lay 
Than    that  of  sportive  love,  to  crown  my  manhood's 
day. 

A  lay  of  truth,  inscribed  unto  my  kind, 

Their  joys  and  griefs,  their  liberties  and  wrongs  ; 


330  POETS   AND   TOETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  spirit  that  would  every  chain  unbind, 
By  thee  invoked,  inspired  my  later  songs 

With  stern  rebukes  of  lying  pens  and  tongues. 
O,  still  be  with  me,  Genius  of  the  West, 

And  grant  the  boon  for  which  my  spirit  longs  — 
To  weave  the  verse  which  thou  shalt  deem  the  best, 

Ere  'neath  my  native  soil  I  sink  to  rest ! 


T 


Karma. 

ISAAC  KINLEY. 

IS  what  there  is  in  nature  wrought ; 


'T  is  what  our  own  deep  thinking  brings ; 
'T  is  the  consistency  of  thought, 
And  the  consistency  of  things. 

Of  what  of  earth-life  that  we  know ; 

Of  things  of  good  or  ill  repute, 
Of  all  there  be  of  high  or  low, 

It  is  the  blossom  and  the  fruit. 

The  wind  that  bloweth  where  it  lists, 

The  ocean  with  its  ceaseless  roll ; 
What  contradicts  and  what  consists ; 

'T  is  the  beginning  and  the  goal. 

'T  is  cause  and  sequence,  —  endless  chain ;  — 

A  river  with  a  ceaseless  flow ;  — 
'T  is  life  and  death,  't  is  brawn  and  brain ; 

'T  is  all  we  feel  and  all  we  know. 


TWO   PLOWMEN.     .  331 

Doubt. 

MRS.    J.    V.    H.    KOONS. 

DOUBT,  thou  ever  watchful  angel, 
Once  I  would  not  look  on  thee  ; 
Hated  the  uplifted  finger 

Thou  didst  point  and  shake  at  me. 
Deeds  that  shone  in  blazing  glory 

Thou  wouldst  throw  thy  veil  upon, 
And  transform  the  grandest  story 
With  thy  probing  tongue  anon. 

But  through  years  of  groping  blindly 

Thou  hast  been  my  faithful  friend, 
Prompting  me  to  somewhat  higher, 

Standing  by  me  in  the  end. 
Still  with  cautious  eyes  upon  me, 

Eyes  that  say,  "  Dare  not,  nor  do 
Aught  thy  whole  heart  does  not  sanction ; 

To  thy  inmost  soul  be  true." 

Two  Plowmen. 

MRS.    J.    V.    H.    KOONS. 

PLOW  on,  O  noble  worker,  pierce  the  soil, 
Turn,  rend,  and  air  it  in  the  glowing  sun. 
The  choicest  fruit  and  flowers  come  of  thy  toil. 
What  if  thy  shares  through  beds  of  roses  run, 


332  POETS  AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Or  fright  a  brood  of  birdlings  from  their  nest, 
Or  rout  the  field  mice  in  their  quiet  play  ? 

The  fullness  of  the  earth's  responsive  breast 
To  hungry  men  is  of  more  worth  than  they. 

Plow  on,  O  fearless  thinker !  furrow  deep 

The  soil  o'ergrown  with  error  ;  cut  false  roots, 
Pull  out,  pile  up,  and  burn  them  in  a  heap. 

Albeit  there  have  grown  rank  plants  with  shoots 
Of  promise ;  foolish  faith,  with  folded  wing, 

Beneath  their  shelter  may  have  found  a  rest ; 
Yet  from  the  severed  crust  the  truth  shall  spring, 

And  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  be  blest. 


The  Vain  Kite. 

MRS.    J.    V.    H.    KOONS. 

THE  day  was  beautiful  and  bright ; 
There  rose  a  buoyant,  bracing  breeze, 
That  upward  bore  a  brilliant  kite 

Above  the  housetops  and  the  trees. 
His  red  wings,  like  a  flame  of  fire, 

Were  gayly  spread  aloft  and  wide, 
And  steadily  rose  higher,  higher ; 

Till,  dizzy  grown  and  swelled  with  pride, 
He  downward  cast  a  scornful  look. 

"  O  how  superior  am  I 
To  all  below  !     The  envious  brook 

And  field  shall  see  me  reach  the  sky. 


THE   PIPER'S   LAY.  333 

"  The  trees  and  birds,  the  groveling  things, 

How  dull  and  foolishly  content 
With  rustling  leaves,  and  restless  wings, 

Their  uneventful  days  are  spent." 
He  shook  his  head  and  wagged  his  tail, 

And  heavenward  steered  with  stately  grace, 
As  if  he  had  the  world  for  sale, 

And  could  with  ease  all  air  embrace. 
But  suddenly  —  alas  !    alack  ! 

The  string  that  held  his  Honor  broke ; 
Then  down  to  earth,  with  crippled  back, 

He  fell  among  the  common  folk. 


The  Piper's  Lay. 

HARVEY  PORTER  LAYTON. 

THE  piper  piped  a  mellow  lay, 
Then  drank  a  health  of  me ; 
He  called  the  pixies  from  their  play, 

And  from  the  hive  the  bee. 
All  the  men  on  hill  and  plain 

Stood  by  and  heard  him  sing ; 
He  charmed  the  maids  with  his  refrain, 
And  swallows  on  the  wing. 

The  purple  hills  in  summer's  breeze 
Took  up  his  pipe  and  played ; 

Along  the  green  and  level  leas 
He  spread  an  early  shade. 


334  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  answered  owl  sat  mute  and  blind 

Upon  his  homelike  tree, 
The  night-jars  could  no  answer  find 

To  break  his  piper's  glee. 

I  smiling  sat  and  heard  his  lays ; 

He  sang  in  idle  quest ; 
He  passed  through  green  and  winding  ways 

Where  gleaners  stopped  to  rest. 
The  lonely  hills  and  quiet  stars 

Extol  the  piper's  lay, 
And  down  along  the  river  bars 

The  echoes  die  away. 


A  Mystery. 

ALBERT    W.    MACY. 

I  SAW  the  funeral  train  go  by, 
I  heard  the  tolling  soft  and  slow ; 
My  heart  was  sad,  I  knew  not  why, 
For  this  was  many  years  ago. 

Around  her  grave  a  sorrowing  band 
A  solemn  dirge  sang  sweet  and  low ; 

But  why,  I  could  not  understand, 
For  this  was  many  years  ago. 

Deep  in  the  earth  they  laid  her  there, 
And  left  her  when  they  turned  to  go. 

Cruel !     But  would  she,  could  she  care  ? 
'T  was  many,  many  years  ago. 


A   FANCY.  335 

The  round  of  life  has  brought  to  me 
My  share  of  earthly  weal  and  woe ; 

And  still  't  is  all  a  mystery, 

Though  this  was  many  years  ago. 


A  Fancy. 

MRS.   ZERILDA    McCOY. 

I    LAUNCHED  a  dream  upon  the  mist-crowned  bay, 
Whose  pulses  beat 
Against   the   shores   of   dawn.     Upon   the   gray   hills, 

silver  sweet, 
The   echoes   rang,   and    swift   the   glad   winds   rushed 

to  meet 
The  bright-lipped,  shoreward-pressing  tide  of  day. 

I  called  to  Love,  "  Awake  !  awake ! 

Too  long  has  sleep 
Pressed  kisses  on  thine  eyelids.     Rise  and  shake 
Thy  long  locks  wet  with  dew.     Behold  where  sweep 
The  banners  of  my  dream  upon  the  deep. 

"  Come !     Take  the  helm  !     My  heart  is  there, 

Within  my  dream  ; 
Pale,  golden-throated  lilies  bending  o'er,  fair 
Roses  clasping  round.     'T  is  thine  to  guard,  to  bear, 
Where'er  the  day's  ethereal  waves  shall  gleam." 

Love  took  the  helm.     And  soft  and  slow, 

Now  seen,  now  gone, 


336  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

As  floats  a  star  where  pale  mists  come  and  go, 
As  glides  the  moon  where  clouds  transparent  flow, 
Through     changing    foam-winged    spray,    my    dream 
moved  on. 

On  !  where  the  billows  of  the  noonday  rise 

With  golden  crest ! 
More  pure,  more  soft,  Love's  wondrous,  lucid  eyes, 
More  clear  the  outline  of  my  dream  upon  the  skies, 
More  sweet  the  breath  that  lulled  my  heart  to  rest. 

Far,  far  and  bright,  the  waters  of  the  west, 

Along  the  shore 
Of  night  extend.     Upon  their  passion-heaving  breast 
My    dream    is    rocked.     Within    their    clasping    arms 

caressed, 
Sinks,  circling  slow,  and  sinks  to  rise  no  more. 

But  when  from  cold,  gray  skies  the  clouds  hang  low, 

And  sad  winds  blow  ; 
I  hear  low  voices  singing  fitfully  and  slow, 
"Dreams  last  but  for  a  day  —  they  fade  when  day  is 

done; 
And  Love,  as  frail  as  they,  dies  with  the  dying  sun ; 

And  hearts  that  trust, 
With  them  are  wrecked,  and  molder  into  dust." 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  TRUTH.  337 

The  Search  for  Truth. 

WILLIAM   W.    H.    McCURDY. 

LONG  have  men  sought  the  world  around 
To  find  out  Truth,  yet  have  but  found 
The  path  that  leadeth  to  her  bound. 

"  Lo  !  here  is  Truth,"  the  people  cry, 
And  with  "  Hosannas ! "  rend  the  sky; 
Their  "Truth  "  turns  out  a  painted  lie. 

In  churches  old,  in  halls  of  state ; 

In  seats  where  wise  men  long  have  sate, 

Among  the  high,  the  good,  the  great ; 

My  wandering  feet  have  hopeful  trod 
To  find  out  Truth,  the  child  of  God, 
Yet  have  not  found  her  blest  abode. 

"  Here  ! "  cries  the  Jew,  in  tones  of  pride, 
"  With  Moses's  law  does  Truth  abide  !  " 
But  Jesus  set  their  Truth  aside. 

Through  grand  cathedrals,  gray  and  old, 
While  kingdoms  fell  and  centuries  rolled, 
For  ages  has  the  tale  been  told, 

Thro'  columned  aisle,  'neath  vaulted  dome, 
While  countless  myriads  go  and  come, 
That  "  Truth  remains  alone  with  Rome." 


338  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

But  Luther's  voice,  resounding  wide, 
Above  the  papal  thunders  cried 
In  stern  rebuke  of  Roman  pride. 

Then  came,  in  after-times,  a  throng, 
With  zeal  as  fervent,  faith  as  strong, 
Denouncing  Luther's  way  as  wrong. 

How  through  the  ages,  dim  and  vast, 
Has  come  each  stout  iconoclast, 
To  break  the  clay  of  eras  past ! 

The  truth  that  all  receive  to-day, 
To-morrow,  searched  by  reason's  ray, 
A  naked  falsehood,  flies  away. 

And  still,  through  centuries  of  doubt, 

Truth's  ways  have  seemed  "  past  finding  out,r 

So  thickly  set  with  toils  about. 

Alas !  what  hope  for  you  and  me 
From  error's  snares  to  struggle  free, 
When  wisest  doctors  disagree. 

For  Falsehood  comes  in  cunning  guise, 

Deceives  alike  the  weak  and  wise, 

So  much  like  Truth  she  greets  our  eyes. 


THE   GREAT   DISCOVERER.  339 

Life. 

MRS.   JOSEPHINE  W.    MELLETTE. 

A  LITTLE  time  to  curl  her  pretty  hair; 
Some  moments  more  to  place  a  bonnet  straight, 
And  haste  to  "Mrs.  Grundy's"  "swell  affair"  — 
How  very  sad  should  she  arrive  too  late ! 
But  is  it  life,  that  sacred,  deathless  dream, 
To  idly  drift  upon  an  idle  stream  ? 

The   Great   Discoverer. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

BEHIND  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 
Behind  the  gates  of  Hercules  ; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said  :  "  Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo,  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'rl,  speak  ;  what  shall  I  say  ?  " 
"Why  say,  '  Sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on.'  " 

"  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day ; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home  ;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'rl,  say, 

If  we  wight  not  but  seas  at  dawn  ?  " 
"  Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day, 

'  Sail  on,  sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on.'  " 


340 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said  : 
"  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone  ; 
Now  speak,  brave  Adm'rl,  speak  and  say." 

He  said  :  "  Sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on." 

They  sailed.     They  sailed.     Then  spoke  the  mate : 

"  This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night ; 
He  curls  his  lip ;  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite. 
Brave  Adm'rl,  say  but  one  good  word, 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone  ? " 
The  words  leapt  as  a  leaping  sword, 

"  Sail  on,  sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on." 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.     Ah,  the  night 
Of  all  dark  nights  !    And  then  a  speck  — 

A  light !  a  light !  a  light !  a  light ! 
It  grew  ;  a  starlit  flag  unfurled. 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world  ;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  greatest  lesson,  "  On  and  on." 


THE   MOTHERS   OF   MEN.  34 1 

The  Mothers  of  Men. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

THE  bravest  battle  that  ever  was  fought ! 
Shall  I  tell  you  where  and  when  ? 
On  the  maps  of  the  world  you  will  find  it  not  — 
'T  was  fought  by  the  mothers  of  men. 

Nay,  not  with  cannon  or  battle  shot, 

With  a  sword  or  nobler  pen  ; 
Nay,  not  with  eloquent  words  or  thought 

From  mouths  of  wonderful  men  ! 

But  deep  in  a  walled-up  woman's  heart  — 

Of  a  woman  that  would  not  yield, 
But  bravely,  silently,  bore  her  part  — 

Lo,  there  is  that  battlefield  ! 

No  marshaling  troop,  no  bivouac  song, 

No  banner  to  gleam  and  wave  ; 
But  oh  !  these  battles  they  last  so  long  — 

From  babyhood  to  the  grave  — 

Yet,  faithful  still  as  a  bridge  of  stars, 
She  fights  in  her  walled-up  town  — 

Fights  on  and  on  in  the  endless  wars, 
Then,  silent,  unseen,  goes  down. 

Oh,  ye  with  banners  and  battle  shot, 

And  soldiers  to  shout  and  praise ! 
I  tell  you  the  kingliest  victories  fought 

Were  fought  in  these  silent  ways. 


342  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Oh,  spotless  woman  in  a  world  of  shame, 
With  splendid  and  silent  scorn, 

Go  back  to  God  as  white  as  you  came  — 
The  kingliest  warrior  born  ! 


St.   Brandan's  Isle. 

MRS.    MARY   E.    NEALY. 

IN  the  olden  days  they  dreamed  of  an  isle 
Where  the  blooming  flowers  and  the  sunset's  smile 
Their  sorrows  forever  might  beguile. 

Where  tropical  blossoms  and  waving  palms 
And  gentle  zephyrs  and  restful  calms 
Made  life  like  a  volume  of  holy  psalms. 

Where  pain,  nor  sorrow,  nor  toil,  nor  care, 
Ever  filled  with  their  moanings  the  peaceful  air; 
But  "  Praise  to  the  Lord !  "  was  their  only  prayer. 

Where  never  a  mildew,  a  frost,  or  blight, 
Poisoned  the  air  of  the  pleasant  night ; 
But  all  was  joyance  and  soft  delight. 

Where  thornless  roses  grew  on  the  plain, 
And  love  brought  pleasure  instead  of  pain, 
Soothing  the  soul  like  summer  rain ! 

They  had  seen  this  isle  as  it  seemed  to  float 
Farther  away  from  their  eager  boat ; 
They  had  heard  sweet  music,  note  on  note, 


ST.   BRANDAN'S   ISLE.  343 

Which  seemed  to  invite  to  its  fragrant  shore ; 
But  the  eve  would  fall,  and  the  night  pass  o'er, 
And  they  never  could  find  it  —  any  more  ! 

Oh,  Isle  of  St.  Brandan !     Still  we  see, 
Afar  through  the  future's  mystery, 
A  land  as  beautiful,  fair  and  free  ! 

Still  do  we  chase  it  from  life's  fair  dawn, 
Till  the  evening  shades  come  silently  on  ; 
Then  we  waken,  and  look,  and  behold  !  't  is  gone. 

The  artist  paints  it  with  hues  of  flame; 
The  poet  sings  it,  and  dreams  of  fame, 
And  the  statesman  seeks  it  to  find  a  name. 

Yet  all,  when  nearing  it,  lose  its  light ; 

It  vanishes  into  the  silent  night, 

And  leaves  them  desolate,  starless  quite. 

Ah,  Father  in  Heaven  !  what  can  it  mean  ? 
Must  the  unseen  be  always  more  than  the  seen  ? 
May  we  never  pierce  the  mysterious  screen 

Which  hides  us  forever  from  what  we  seek  ? 
Which  leaveth  us  weary,  faint,  and  weak, 
With  words  in  our  hearts  we  never  can  speak  ? 

With  hopes  we  may  never,  never  tell, 
And  longings  we  never  may  curb  or  quell 
Till  we  reach  the  land  where  the  spirits  dwell  ? 


344  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Oh,  Isle  of  St.  Brandan  !  thy  palms  arise, 

In  this  moment  of  doubt  to  my  aching  eyes-, 

And  their  sweet  grace  blends  with  the  sunset  skies. 

And  I  long  for  thee  with  thy  tropic  charms, 
With  thine  orange  groves  and  thy  firefly  swarms, 
As  I  long  for  the  darling  fled  from  my  arms ! 


The  Test  of  Faith. 

WILLIAM    P.    NEEDHAM. 

GOD  hides  Himself  behind  a  wall  of  night, 
And  Faith  alone  can  see  Him  in  the  gloom, 
Or,  thrilling,  catch  the  far-off,  dearer  light 
Of  home  beyond  the  night,  beyond  the  tomb. 

But  Faith  is  weak,  and  needeth  food  and  air, 
And  lingers  'round  the  dear  familiar  place 

It  loves  the  best  —  a  palace,  great  and  fair  ; 
And  enters  in  with  tender,  holy  grace. 

Within,  the  precious  lamps  are  burning  low, 
The  blinds  are  down,  the  music  dull  and  cold, 

And  angry  men  are  rushing  to  and  fro, 

And  pride  and  hate  and  cant  are  waking  bold. 

Dear  Faith,  on  tiptoe,  softly  steals  away, 

And  mourns  and  whispers  in  her  weary  flight, 

And  murmurs  all  the  dreary,  livelong  day : 
"  God  hides  Himself  behind  a  wall  of  night." 


THE   HORNS.  345 

Shadow  Lines. 


MEREDITH   NICHOLSON. 


WHAT  time  the  brooding  dark  around  you  falls, 
Save  only  as  the  lamp's  shade-softened  light 
Burns  through  it,  but  without  dispelling  quite  — 
Trembling  along  the  dim  and  shadowy  walls  — 
What  fleeting  spirit  of  the  evening  calls  — 

What  songs  come  stealing  to  you  through  the  night 
Along  the  vistas  of  brave  fancy's  flight  — 
What  story  steals  from  old  Romance's  halls? 

I  cannot  fathom  what  these  things  to  you 

May  bring,  nor  what  sad  thoughts  to  you  belong  ; 

Nor  know  I  whether  rosemary  or  rue 

Awaits  you  here  or  there ;  the  path  is  long 

And  some  things  must  be  false  and  some  be  true, 
And  sad  strains  must  be  woven  in  the  song. 


The  Horns. 

MEREDITH    NICHOLSON. 

(By  permission,  from  the  Cejitury  Magazine.") 

MY   soul  for  joy  had  died  what  time 
The  violin  rang  out  alone, 
And  requiem  bells  in  solemn  chime 
Grieved  through  the  viol's  moan. 


346  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

But  harp  and  'cello  led  me  on 

Through  maze  of  tender  harmonies, 

Beyond  the  hour,  beyond  the  dawn, 
Beyond  the  utmost  seas. 

Till  through  that  realm  by  music  bound, 
Like  a  bold  blast  of  freshening  air, 

Sudden,  I  heard  the  trumpets  sound 
With  harsh  and  militant  blare. 

Then,  as  to  Joshua's  trumpet  call, 
Seven  days  repeated,  Jericho 

Yielded  its  stern,  reluctant  wall, 
So  were  such  dreams  brought  low  ; 

And,  their  poor  ruin  quickly  spurned, 
Into  fierce  conflict  I  was  hurled, 

Where  fields  and  cities  brightly  burned, 
And  battle  shook  the  world. 


Unmapped. 

MEREDITH   NICHOLSON. 

WHOSE  hand  shall  limn  the  final  chart, 
Complete,  with  every  stream  that  flows, 
With  pathways  which  the  bold  of  heart 
Have  trampled  through  the  Polar  snows  ? 

Perchance  to-morrow's  sun  will  shine 
On  outposts  by  some  desolate  shore, 

Where  man's  advancing  picket  line 
Must  pause  and  camp  forevermore. 


MEREDITH    NICHOLSON. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  THE   REPUBLIC.  347 

E'en  now  the  wide-strewn  island  host 
Within  the  map's  net  has  been  drawn, 

And  soon  no  mere  adventurer's  boast 
Shall  lure  the  tropic  traveler  on. 

But  when  the  maps  are  finished  quite, 
And  all  the  stranger  world  is  known, 

Shall  still  abide  th'  illusive  light 

On  coasts  where  Fancy's  winds  are  blown. 

And  fearless  eyes  for  long  may  strain, 
And  steady  hands  may  guide  the  helm, 

But  none  can  ever  hope  to  gain 

The  farthest  shore  of  Fancy's  realm. 


Autobiography  of  the  Republic. 

JOHN    C    OCHILTREE. 

HYMN   OF    NATIVITY. 
TJte  Era  of  Superstition. 

MUSED,  I  mused, 
In  the  deep  solitudes  — 
Well-befitting  my  moods  — 
On  the  storm  and  the  calm ;  on  the  mist  and  the  snow ; 
On  the  sinister  light 
In  the  cloud  ;  on  the  night 
With  its  mystical  pall ;  on  the  day  with  its  glow. 


I 


348  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  Era  of  Discovery. 
I  rose,  I  rose, 
Like  a  dream  of  the  Past, 
From  the  Occident  vast, 
'Mid  the  spaces  shut  in  by  the  unplowed  sea ; 
Brave  men  from  the  North 
And  the  East  came  forth, 
And  their  faith  and  the  stars  led  them  hither  to  me ! 

The  Era  of  War. 
I  strove,  I  strove, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  guns 
And  the  blood  of  my  sons 
Were  the  cloud  and  the  shower  that  nourished  my  streams ; 
From  that  red  mist  the  bars 
Of  a  bow  set  in  stars 
Made  prophetic  the  hope  men  had  cherished  in  dreams. 

The  Era  of  Enlightenment. 

I  saw,  I  saw, 

In  the  fullness  of  time 

All  the  meaning  sublime 
In  the  coming  of  ships  from  the  Orient  Sea. 

And  the  bow  with  its  bars, 

Set  in  manifold  stars, 
Was  the  sign  that  God  wills  that  all  men  shall  be  free ! 


DA   CAPO.  349 

Da   Capo. 

DANIEL   L.  PAINE. 

SHE  sat  at  the  old  piano, 
Her  fingers,  thin  and  pale, 
Ran  over  the  yellow  keyboard 
The  chords  of  the  minor  scale. 

Her  hands  were  withered  and  shrunken, 

Her  form  with  age  was  bent ; 
They  seemed  twin  spirits  in  look  and  tone, 

Herself  and  the  instrument. 

For  the  instrument,  quaint  and  olden, 

With  its  single  tremulant  strings, 
Was  little  more  than  a  spirit, 

And  its  tone  seemed  a  whirr  of  wings. 

And  she  —  the  keen  chisel  of  sorrow, 

And  the  cruel  burin  of  care, 
Had  cut  in  her  dear  old  features 

Deep  furrows  here  and  there. 

Till  all  that  was  gross  and  earthy 

Had  been  chipped  and  smoothed  away, 

And  disclosed  the  patient  angel 
Behind  its  thin  mask  of  clay. 

She  paused  ;   and  with  upturned  features 

And  reminiscent  eyes, 
Was  translated  in  one  brief  moment 

Back  to  young  life's  Paradise. 


350  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

And  the  lovely  spirit  of  childhood, 
So  trusting,  and  pure,  and  sweet, 

Came  back  and  glorified  her 
From  beaming  forehead  to  feet. 

Then  she  swept  the  keys,  and  the  music 
Of  vanished  years  leapt  out, 

Each  note  was  a  patter  of  merry  feet 
And  a  gleeful  childish  shout. 


And  fingers  dimpled  and  rosy 
Tripped  o'er  the  enchanted  keys, 

And  the  music  was  fresh  as  young  laughter, 
Or  the  warble  of  birds  in  the  trees. 

No  strain  from  the  old  tone-masters, 

No  burst  of  harmony  grand, 
Sprang  from  the  old  piano 

At  the  touch  of  that  magic  hand. 

But  the  simple  airs  of  her  girlhood 

Rippled  in  melody  sweet, 
As  in  days  when  her  sky  was  all  sunshine, 

And  the  hours  were  as  happy  as  fleet ; 

And  sparkled  the  light  that  vanished 

From  eyes  long  dried  of  tears, 
And  twinkled  feet  to  her  music 

That  have  moldered  in  dust  for  years. 


AT   ELBERON.  351 

And,  as  we  watched  and  listened, 

She  seemed  to  our  moistened  eyes 
Already  beyond  the  portals 

That  open  toward  the  skies. 

Nor  seemed  it  longer  a  marvel 

That,  when  in  the  morning  gray, 
The  disciples  came  to  the  tomb  of  the  Lord 

To  bear  the  body  away, 

They  found  but  his  cast-off  garment, 

With  its  odor  of  aloes  and  myrrh, 
And  the  stone  rolled  away  from  the  open  door 

Of  an  empty  sepulcher. 


At  Elberon. 

DANIEL   L.    PAINE. 
(President  Garfield,  died  September  19, 1881.) 

IF  through  the  portals  opening  toward  the  light 
E'er  walked  a  man  in  armor  clean  and  bright, 
That  man,  untrammeled,  outward  passed  last  night 

From  Elberon. 

Firm-lipped,  clear-eyed,  clean-souled,  he  met  his  fate, 
Leaving  behind  no  rancor  and  no  hate, 
And  strode,  high-browed,  undaunted,  through  the  gate 

At  Elberon. 


352  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

In  deeds  resplendent,  and  in  honor  bright, 
In  high  example  shining  as  the  light, 
He  lives  immortal,  he  who  died  last  night 
At  Elberon. 


"  Hail  and  Farewell." 

BENJAMIN  S.  PARKER. 

"  T  TAIL  and  farewell !  "     We  meet  and  part, 

1  1     Even  with  the  greeting  on  our  lips ; 
As  those  who  from  some  busy  mart 
See  all  their  wealth  go  out  in  ships, 
That  never  come  again  to  shore, 
So  fade  our  days  to  rise  no  more. 

Our  threescore  years  are  but  a  span ; 

We  scarcely  trill  an  idle  song, 
Before  the  funeral  army's  van 
Passes  with  muffled  drums  along  ; 
And  sadly  then  the  doleful  bell 
Moans  to  the  palsied  ear,  "  Farewell." 

"  Hail  and  farewell !  "     The  stars  go  down  ; 

The  billows  of  the  rosy  dawn 
Are  breaking  on  the  idle  town, 

And  night's  weird  armies,  far  withdrawn, 
Fade  like  gaunt  specters  down  the  west, 
And  hope  is  strong  and  love  is  best. 


THE   EMPTY  NEST.  353 

Yes,  hope  is  strong  in  newer  souls, 

And  love  is  best  for  those  who  stay ; 
No  more  my  ship  at  anchor  rolls, 
And  yours  is  sailing  fast  away. 
I  lose  you,  for  the  ocean's  swell 
Breaks  now  between  us,  "  Hail,  farewell !  " 

The  lamp  goes  out,  the  embers  die, 

Pale  Dian  tips  her  silver  keel 
In  some  far-hidden  reach  of  sky, 

While  night  and  darkness  round  us  steal, 
And  sorrow  sits  on  every  sail ; 
We  cry  "  Farewell !  "  but  whisper  "  Hail !  " 

Beyond  the  ocean,  where  the  palms 
Arise  beside  the  jocund  streams, 
And  love  rehearses  all  his  psalms, 
And  youth  renews  his  happy  dreams, 
If  I  may  wait  your  coming  sail, 
How  blessed  then  the  cheerful  "  Hail !  " 


The  Empty  Nest. 

BENJAMIN   S.    PARKER. 

I  HOLD  within  the  hollow  of  my  hand 
A  little  nest  of  twigs  and  wool  entwined 
By  some  wee  mother  that  has  fled  the  land, 
And  left  but  storm  and  winter  winds  behind. 


354  POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Child  of  the  Summer,  she  to  Summer  gave 
Her  happy  singing  offspring,  and  behold  ! 

They  flit  with  Summer  over  land  and  wave, 
And  warble  in  her  atmosphere  of  gold. 


I  hold  within  the  casket  of  my  soul 

The  empty  nest  where  many  hopes  were  born, 
That  fled  beyond  my  eager  youth's  control, 

And  left  me  lonely,  sorrowing  and  forlorn. 

Children  of  Youth,  with  Youth  they  ever  fly, 
But  never  fold  their  wings  in  any  cage  ; 

Divinely  sing  in  boyhood's  happy  sky, 
But  flee  from  the  chill  atmosphere  of  age. 


The  Little  Tunker   Bonnet. 

BENJAMIN   S.    PARKER. 

(By permission,  from  the  Century  Magazine?) 

MAIDEN  came  driving  a  sleek  black  mare 
Into  the  town,  into  the  town  ; 
And  the  light  wind  lifted  her  raven  hair 
In  innocent  ringlets  falling  down, 

Like  the  cadence  of  a  sonnet, 
To  the  neck  of  her  fleecy,  lead-colored  gown, 
From  under  the  puckered,  silken  crown 
Of  her  little  Tunker  bonnet. 


A 


THE   LITTLE  TUXKER   BONNET.  355 

She'd  a  red-rose  lip  and  an  eye  of  brown, 

And  dimples  rare,  and  dimples  rare ; 
But  the  lassies  laughed  as  she  rode  in  town, 
For  the  graceful  gown  that  she  wore  with  care 

Had  never  a  flounce  upon  it ; 
And  they  made  remarks  on  her  rustic  air, 
And  wondered  what  country  hulk  would  dare 
Make  love  to  that  "queer  old  bonnet." 

O  merry  town  girls,  you  do  not  know 

Acres  are  wide,  acres  are  wide  ; 
And  wheat  and  corn  fields  lying  a-row 

Are  the  Tunker's  wealth  and  the  Tunker's  pride ; 

And  the  farm  and  the  houses  on  it ; 
The  cow  for  milk,  and  the  horse  to  ride, 
Are  gift  and  dower  for  the  bonny  bride 
That  weareth  the  Tunker  bonnet. 

But  the  merchant  beau  at  the  dry-goods  store 

Welcomed  her  in,  welcomed  her  in  ; 
And  the  sweet  little  face  with  smiles  ran  o'er 
As  the  cunning  purse  of  crocodile  skin, 

With  the  clicking  clasp  upon  it, 
She  drew  at  each  purchase,  and  from  within 
Coaxed  arguments  that  were  there  to  win 
Sure  grace  for  the  Tunker  bonnet. 

Then  she  mounted  her  buggy  and  drove  away 

Through  meadows  sweet,  through  meadows  sweet ; 

Where  her  graybeard  father  raked  the  hay 

By  the  Tunker  church  where  the  turnpikes  meet, 


356  POETS   AND   rOETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  church  with  no  steeple  on  it. 
Said  the  merchant,  musing,  "  Her  style  is  neat 
I'll  join  the  Tunkers,  raise  beard  and  wheat, 

And  win  that  little  bonnet." 


Behind  the  Returns. 

EDWIN   E.    PARKER. 

ALAS !  I  know  not  what  I  know. 
I  stand  and  gaze,  within  the  dark, 
And  feel  the  restless  river's  flow, 

And  idly  strive  to  guide  my  bark, 
Despite  the  winds  of  joy,  or  woe, 
That  fiercely  'round  about  me  blow. 

I've  searched  for  light  amid  the  lore 

That  crowns  the  scholar's  brow  with  fame, 

And  found  each  myst'ry  varnished  o'er 
With  some  long,  scientific  name, 

And  cried,  "  Eureka,  this  the  door ! 

I'll  wander  in  the  night  no  more." 

But  't  is  a  door  that  leads  nowhere, 
A  hingeless  vagary  of  thought  — 

Another  name,  perchance,  for  air, 
As  if  for  names  our  spirits  sought ; 

Thus  ancient  knowledge  is  re-wrought 

To  teach  us  that  we  know  not  aught. 


THE   MOWER   IN   OHIO.  357 

The  savage  sees  the  things  we  see, 
And  trembles  at  an  Unknown  Power.' 

We  name  them,  and  at  once  are  free 

Of  doubt  and  fear  from  that  proud  hour ; 

And  yet  we  know  no  more  than  he 

About  their  subtile  mystery. 

Oh  !  tell  me  why  yon  bonfire  burns, 

And  why  it  brightly  warms  and  beams. 

Pray  tell  me  why  the  spirit  yearns  — 
Explain  the  mystery  of  dreams  — 

Oh  !  help  my  longing,  which  discerns 

A  something,  back  of  the  returns. 


The  Mower  in   Ohio. 

JOHN  JAMES   PIATT. 

THE  bees  in  the  clover  are  making  honey,  and  I 
am  making  my  hay  ; 
The  air  is  fresh,  I  seem  to  draw  a  young  man's  breath 
to-day. 

The  bees  and  I  are  alone  in  the  grass  ;  the  air  is  so 

very  still 
I  hear  the  dam,  so  loud,  that  shines  beyond  the  sullen 

mill. 

Yes,  the  air  is  so  still  that  I  hear  almost  the  sounds  I 

cannot  hear  — 
That,  when  no  other  sound  is  plain,  ring  in  my  empty 

ear  : 


358  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  chime  of  striking  scythes,  the  fall  of  the    heavy 

swaths  they  sweep  — 
They  ring  about  me,  resting,  when  I  waver  half  asleep  ; 

So  still  I  am  not  sure  if  a  cloud,  low  down,  unseen  there 

be, 
Or  if  something  brings  a  rumor  home  of  the  cannon  so 

far  from  me : 

Far  away  in  Virginia  where  Joseph  and  Grant,  I  know, 
Will  tell  them  what  I  meant  when  first  I  had  my  mow- 
ers go ! 

Joseph  he  is  my  eldest  one,  the  only  boy  of  my  three 
Whose  shadow  can  darken  my  door  again,  and  lighten 
my  heart  for  me. 

Joseph  he  is  my  eldest  —  how  his  scythe  was  striking 

ahead ! 
William  was  better  at  shorter  heats,  but  Jo  in  the  long 

run  led. 

William  he  was  my  youngest ;  John,  between  them,  I 

somehow  see, 
When  my  eyes  are  shut,  with  a  little  board  at  his  head 

in  Tennessee. 

But  William  came  home  one  morning  early,  from  Get- 
tysburg, last  July 

(The  mowing  was  over  already,  although  the  only 
mower  was  I) : 


THE   MOWER  IN   OHIO.  359 

William,  my  captain,  came  home  for  good  to  his  mother, 

and  I'll  be  bound 
We  were  proud  and  cried  to  see  the  flag  that  wrapt  his 

coffin  around  ; 

For  a  company  from  the  town  came  up  ten  miles  with 

music  and  gun : 
It  seem'd  his  country  claim'd  him  then  —  as  well  as  his 

mother —  her  son. 


But  Joseph  is  yonder  with   Grant  to-day,   a  thousand 

miles  or  near, 
And  only  the  bees  are  abroad  at  work  with  me  in  the 

clover  here. 


Was  it  a  murmur  of  thunder  I  heard  that  humm'd  again 
in  the  air  ? 

Yet,  maybe,  the  cannon  are  sounding  now  their  "  On- 
ward to  Richmond  "  there. 

But  under  the  beech  by  the  orchard,  at  noon,  I  sat  an 

hour  it  would  seem  — 
It  may  be   I  slept  a  minute,   too,   or  waver'd   into    a 

dream. 

For  I  saw  my  boys,  across  the  field,  by  the  flashes  as 

they  went, 
Tramping  a  steady  tramp  as  of  old,  with  the  strength 

in  their  arms  unspent ; 


360  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Tramping   a   steady  tramp,   they  moved  like    soldiers 

that  march  to  the  beat 
Of  music  that  seems,  a  part  of  themselves,  to  rise  and 

fall  with  their  feet ; 


Tramping  a  steady  tramp,  they  came  with   flashes  of 

silver  that  shone, 
Every   step,   from   their  scythes  that  rang  as  if  they 

needed  the  stone  — 

(The  field  is  wide  and  heavy  with  grass)  —  and  coming 

toward  me  they  beam'd 
With  a  shine  of  light   in   their  faces   at   once,  and  — 

surely  I  must  have  dream'd ! 

For  I  sat  alone  in  the  clover-field,  the  bees  were  work- 
ing ahead. 

There  were  three  in  my  vision  —  remember,  old  man  : 
and  what  if  Joseph  were  dead? 

But  I  hope  that  he  and  Grant  (the  flag  above  them 

both  to  boot) 
Will   go  into  Richmond  together,  no  matter  which  is 

ahead  or  afoot ! 

Meantime  alone  at  the   mowing    here — an    old    man 

somewhat  gray  — 
I  must  stay  at  home  as  long  as  I  can,  making  myself 

the  hay. 


CONTENT.  361 

And  so  another  round  —  the  quail  in  the  orchard  whis- 
tles blithe  — 

But  first  I'll  drink  at  the  spring  below,  and  whet  again 
my  scythe. 


Content. 

ROBERT   E.    PRETLOW. 

WHEN    Spring  comes  laughing  with  her  lap  of 
flowers 
In  answer  to  the  south  wind's  loving  call, 
Till  beauty  springs  where'er  her  footsteps  fall, 
And  fragrance  fills  the  freshly  greening  bowers, 
While  whirr  of  wings  with  notes  of  birds  are  blent, 
I  am  content. 

When  drowsy  hum  of  bees  upon  the  wing 
Fills  all  the  spaces  of  the  afternoon, 
When  mocking  birds,  half  wakened  by  the  moon 
Lull  the  still  midnight  with  the  rune  they  sing, 
Or  summer  suns  fill  noontide's  firmament, 
I  am  content. 

When  summer  glory  fadeth  from  the  days, 
And  hazy  mornings,  filled  with  dread  and  fear, 
Come  down  the  misty  pathway  of  the  year, 
And  mirth  and  music  long  have  gone  their  ways, 
And  blooming  buds  by  blighting  winds  are  spent, 
I  am  content. 


362        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  INDIANA. 

Though  Winter,  riding  from  the  northern  pole, 
Guide  his  mad  steed  'mid  all  our  joys  a-bloom, 
And  chill  them,  quick,  within  a  snowy  tomb, 
I  will  not  sigh  above  his  deadly  dole. 
E'en  from  the  death  of  joy  new  joys  are  lent, 
I  am  content. 

When  friends  abound,  or  loves  prove  all  untrue, 
When  winds  of  fortune  blow  from  every  coast, 
Or  troops  of  troubles  press  me,  host  on  host, 
Be  skies  of  ashen  gray  or  purest  blue, 
While  tender  grace  of  Heaven  is  yet  unspent, 
I  am  content. 


Ends  of  a  Reverie. 

ROBERT   E.    PRETLOW. 

AND  he  was  John,  and  I  was  Isabel ! 
Ah,  well  do  I  remember,  long  ago, 
How  sweet  upon  our  ears  the  music  fell 
Of  whispering  leaves,  the  while  our  words  were  low. 


I  love  him  still !  though  love  has  lost  its  bliss. 

But  should  I  wish  for  him  the  utmost  hell, 

My  tongue  could  speak  no  harsher  curse  than  this: — 

"  Would  I  were  John  and  he  were  Isabel." 


THE   POET-ZONE.  363 

Life  is  so  Fleet. 

MRS.    M.   M.   REDMAN. 

LIFE  is  so  fleet! 
So  many  things  to  learn  we  see, 
So  much  we  would  achieve  must  be 
Left  incomplete. 

Life  is  so  fleet ! 
It  seems  that  we  might  better  bear 
Our  cares  and  sorrows  and  our  fair 

Dear  dreams'  defeat. 

Life  is  so  fleet ! 
A  day  of  sunshine  and  of  rain  : 
Then  other  souls  will,  in  the  main, 

Our  lives  repeat. 

Life  is  so  fleet ! 
O  weary  ones,  of  this  take  heed, 
Full  soon  comes  that  for  which  ye  plead, 

That  rest  so  sweet. 


The   Poet-zone. 

1 
PETER   FISHE   REED. 

TOILING  in  the  night-time, 
Toiling  by  the  light 
Of  the  taper,  on  the  paper, 
Through  the  weary  night ; 


364  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

All  along  the  landmarks, 

Through  the  great  unknown, 

There  the  eager  poet  wanders 
With  his  soul  alone, 

Reaching,  writing,  heart  inditing, 

Weary  waiting  for  the  lighting 
Of  the  poet-zone. 

Down  among  the  karl-kings 

Of  the  humid  earth, 
Where  the  fountain  of  the  mountain 

Had  its  primal  birth ; 
Up  among  the  star-lights, 

Glinting  in  the  blue, 
Roving  through  the  rainbows 

Of  supernal  dew, 
Seeking  treasure  for  his  measure,  — 
Seeking  evanescent  pleasure  — 

In  the  poet-zone. 

Raving,  in  his  wild  unrest, 

With  delicious  pain, 
Embryotic  thought,  erotic, 

Rushes  through  his  brain  ; 
And  the  taunting  soul-guide, 

Wayward  cicerone, 
Toles  the  tireless  spirit  where 

Pierian  pearls  are  strewn, 
To  the  ages  of  the  sages, 
Of  the  antiquated  pages 

Of  the  poet-zone. 


THE   HARP  OF   GOLD.  365 

Striving  for  the  soul-thought 

Burning  on  his  brow, 
Barely  breathing,  rarely  wreathing, 

Rhyme  and  rhythm  flow ; 
And  with  hurried  heart-beats, 

Rolling  one  by  one, 
Weaves  the  mystic  monologues 

In  a  monotone; 
Culling  any  of  the  many 
Beauties  of  the  miscellany 

Of  the  poet-zone. 


The  Harp  of  Gold. 

JOHN   S.REID. 
I. 

WHEN  June  and  Love  were  young  and  fair, 
And  roses  bloomed  in  Eden's  bower, 
And  zephyrs  toy'd  with  Eva's  hair 
At  evening's  soft  and  witching  hour, 
Said  Love  to  Time,  "  Come,  let  us  rove, 
And  pass  through  life  the  hours  away ; 
My  dart  and  bow  I'll  test  and  prove, 
While  you  the  muses'  harp  shall  play." 

11. 

So  Time  agreed  ;  like  knight  of  old, 
Young  Love  assumed  the  martial  guise, 


366  POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

And  folded  up  his  wings  of  gold 

Rich  with  ten  thousand  gorgeous  dyes : 

And  Time  stepped  forth  with  harp  and  lute, 

Like  minstrel  old,  or  palmer  gray, 

And  whilst  the  one  his  bow  would  shoot, 

The  other,  harp  or  lute  would  play. 

in. 

And  oft  they  sang  in  princely  bower, 

And  played  to  many  a  Lady  fair ; 

And  Love  would  climb  the  highest  tower 

The  heart  of  youth  to  pierce  or  snare. 

And  thus  through  many  a  clime  they  strayed, 

Till  many  a  year  had  past  and  gone  ; 

Young  Love  like  chief  in  mail  arrayed, 

And  Time  like  minstrel  old  and  lone. 

IV. 

But  Time  grew  weary  of  the  song 
As  age  stole  gently  o'er  his  brow ; 
Whilst  Love  was  still  as  gay  and  young 
As  when  he  donned  the  mail  and  bow, 
And  full  of  mirth,  and  hope,  and  joy, 
He  oft  for  hours  would  roam  away 
Like  some  young  truant,  wayward  boy, 
Regardless  of  the  passing  day. 


And  thus  each  one  began  to  feel 
That  youth  and  age  no  more  were  one. 


THE   HARP   OF  GOLD.  367 

For  Love,  thus  armed  and  cased  in  steel, 

Could  wound,  and  yet  be  hurt  by  none ; 

While  Time  the  harp's  entrancing  string 

And  golden  wires  would  softly  sound, 

His  heart  refused  the  song  to  sing, 

Which  please  the  friends  that  Love  surround. 

VI. 

One  day  on  Scio's  sea-blue  isle, 
When  gently  mourned  the  JEged.n  wave, 
Where  dove-eyed  Sappho's  passion  smile 
Awoke  to  Love,  the  young  and  brave, 
Old  Time  began  to  muse  and  dream 
Of  Eden's  bower  and  Eva's  love, 
And  saw  afar  life's  crystal  stream, 
And  wished  again  no  more  to  rove. 


VII. 


And  dreamer-like  he  softly  stole 
Where  beauteous  Sappho  sweetly  sung, 
And  took  his  harp  of  burnished  gold, 
Which  round  her  neck  he  gently  hung. 
And  whilst  her  rosy  fingers  swept 
The  glowing  chords  in  raptures  sweet, 
Young  Love  returned,  and  slyly  crept 
And  blushing  lay  at  Sappho's  feet. 


VIII. 


And  while  she  sang  her  melting  lay, 
And  Luna's  beams  so  sweetly  shone, 


368  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Old  Time,  unheeded,  stole  away, 
And  Love  and  Sappho  left  alone. 
Since  then  the  Lover's  harp  no  more 
Is  borne  by  bards  or  minstrels  old ; 
But  maidens  fair  on  Scio's  shore 
Alone  can  sound  that  harp  of  gold. 

IX. 

Yet  oft  when  evening  shrouds  the  lea, 
And  zephyrs  float  on  lambent  wing, 
The  music  of  the  y£gean  Sea 
With  Sappho's  harp  is  heard  to  sing. 
O  !  softly  sounds  in  cadence  sweet 
The  murmur  of  the  sea's  blue  wave, 
While  loving  hearts  responsive  beat 
And  mourn  at  Sappho's  lonely  grave. 


But  softer,  sweeter  breathes  the  lyre 
By  old  Potomac's  regal  stream, 
And  warmer  glows  the  muses'  fire, 
And  brighter  is  the  poet's  dream, 
And  richer  swells  the  choral  strain 
From  lips  attuned  to  beauty's  lay : 
And  Time  resumes  his  harp  again, 
Nor  tries  from  Love  to  steal  away. 


DANTE.  369 


A  Star  and  a  Wish. 

RENOS   H.  RICHARDS. 


IO,  in  the  darkened  east  I  see 
^     A  star,  large,  bright,  and  many-rayed. 
A  kindly  beam  it  throws  to  me. 
I  feign  it  whispers  cheeringly, 

"  To-night  I  watch  ;  be  not  dismayed. 

"  Through  the  still  vigils  of  the  night 

My  course  I'll  keep,  firm,  straight,  and  true. 

Nor  can  the  lowering  heaven  quite 

Envelop  with  its  mists  the  light 
Of  guiding  gleams  I  send  to  you." 

11. 

This  wish  the  star  in  me  has  placed  — 

May  the  full  record  of  my  life, 
By  no  rash,  erring  deed  defaced, 
But  with  beneficence  well  graced, 

Strengthen  the  weak  in  Life's  hard  strife. 


Dante. 


A 


JOHN   CLARK   RIDPATH. 

MAN  in  Florence  walked  with  downcast  face 
Smileless  as  bronze  !     He  went  apart  and  stood 
Under  the  olive  trees.     The  happy  brood 


370  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Of  dancing  children  shuddered  from  the  place ! 

He  muttered  words,  and  then  began  to  trace 
The  story  of  the  infernal  neighborhood 
Virgil  had  shown  him  underneath  the  wood 

Where  men  are  damned  for  endless  time  and  space. 

The  greatest  of  our  bards  American 

Unto  our  harsher  English  rhythm  has  set 
The  Comedy  Divine  —  and  it  is  well ; 

Britain's  Essayist  has  portrayed  the  man 

With  his  so  matchless  energy  —  and  yet 
I  like  him  not,  because  he  sang  of  Hell ! 


Ecce  Homo. 

JOHN  CLARK   RIDPATH. 

BEHOLD  the  Man  !     The  cry  of  Pilate  rings 
Forever.     In  the  halls  and  porch  of  Time 
The  mandate  echoes.     Every  age  and  clime 
Hears  the  profound  apostrophe.     The  wings 
Of  morning  bear  it,  and  the  evening  swings 
The  message  in  a  censer.     The  sublime 
Cry,  Ecce  Homo,  throbbing  like  a  rhyme, 
Beats  and  repeats  to  all  earth's  serfs  and  kings. 

Who  is  the  wondrous  man  we  shall  behold  ? 

The  Christ  ?     The  Socrates  ?     Nay,  nay,  not  one — ■ 
But  him  who  does  his  duty  as  he  can ! 
Hindu  or  Greek,  Hebrew  or  Chaldee  old, 
Teuton  or  Kelt,  humanity's  lone  son 

Of  toil  and  tears  —  in  him  behold  the  man  ! 


JOHN    CLARK    RIDPATH. 


THE   CROWNING.  37 1 

The   Crowning. 

JOHN   CLARK   RIDPATH. 

WHO  shall  be  crowned  with  a  crown  ?  I  said, 
While  the  young  year  sat  in  her  fields  of  clover ; 
And  the  breezes  sighed  and  the  moon  rose  red, 
Flushing  the  clouds  as  they  floated  over. 
The  gathering  youth  and  the  eager  bands 
From  the  meadow  lands 

Are  coming  now 
To  cheer  the  race  with  applauding  hands, 
And  to  put  a  wreath  on  the  victor's  brow. 
Shall  the  artist  be  crowned  ?     He  is  swift  and  fair, 
And  his  brow  is  flushed  in  the  summer  air ; 
He  hath  made  the  bosom  of  bronze  to  sob, 
And  the  marble  heart  to  thrill  and  throb  ! 
So  let  him  be  crowned 
While  the  hills  resound 
With  wild  applause  and  melodious  song 
For  the  artist  king  in  the  midst  of  the  throng  ! 
No !  said  a  voice  from  the  fields  of  air  ; 

Till  the  pencil  shall  lift  the  crouching  slave 
And  the  marble  weep  for  the  fallen  brave, 
The  forehead  of  art  no  crown  shall  wear. 

Who  shall  be  crowned  ?  I  quietly  said, 

In  the  open  ear  of  the  summer  even, 
While  the  planets  yellow  and  the  planets  red 

Looked  back  through  the  western  gates  of  heaven ; 


372  rOETS  AND    POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

The  throng  will  gather  to-morrow  day 
By  the  great  highway 
To  crown  their  king 
With  the  laurel  wreath  and  the  ivy  spray, 
As  all  of  the  singers  sing. 
Shall  the  hero  be  crowned  ?     He's  a  man  of  blood, 
With  a  waving  plume,  and  a  burnished  hood, 
And  a  merciless  eye,  and  an  iron  heel, 
And  a  mighty  arm,  and  a  sword  of  steel ; 
He  shall  be  crowned 
Wherever  he's  found, 
And  the  king  of  all  times  and  all  ages  be 
From  the  tropical  isles  to  the  Northern  Sea ! 
No  !  said  a  voice  from  the  ether  far, 
The  laurel  wreath  and  the  ivy  spray 
Shall  be  woven  no  more  for  aye  and  aye 
For  that  terrible  Man  of  War ! 

Who  shall  be  crowned  ?  I  solemnly  said, 

In  the  still,  cool  night  of  the  pale  September, 
While  the  Milky  Way  hung  over  my  head 
With  its  stars  of  gold  and  its  path  of  amber ; 
The  pageant  comes  and  the  scene  is  set, 
And  the  crowds  all  fret 

Around  the  ring, 
And  a  fair  hand  holds  the  coronet 
For  the  brow  of  the  coming  king  ! 
Shall  the  sage  be  crowned  ?     He  is  very  old 
And  his  pulse  is  low  and  his  breast  is  cold ; 
But  the  fire  still  shines  from  the  altar  far, 
And  his  eye  darts  forth  like  a  quenchless  star : 


THE   CROWNING.  373 

For  the  Stone  he  hath  found 
He  shall  now  be  crowned, 
As  the  king  of  all  realms  in  the  times  to  come 
From  the  wild  man's  tent  to  the  fisherman's  home! 
No  !  was  the  echo  that  fell  from  the  air ; 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge  hath  borne  a  fruit 
With  a  pulp  of  ashes  and  core  of  soot 
That  is  death  to  the  eater,  and  the  end  despair ! 


Who  shall  be  crowned  ?  I  wearily  said, 

For  my  heart  was  sore  and  my  brain  was  sober, 
As  I  turned  through  the  shadows  with  heavy  tread 
To  the  somber  woods  of  the  dun  October : 
The  crowning  is  here,  or  will  be  soon  — 
By  to-morrow  noon 

They  will  choose  a  king ! 
And  already  the  ivy  of  Ercildoune 
For  his  coronet  is  a-gathering. 
Shall  the  poet  be  crowned  ?     He  was  monarch  long 
In  the  grand  old  days  of  heroic  song ; 
And  the  wild  winds  rush  through  the  harp-strings  still, 
And  the  melodies  sweep  and  the  echoes  thrill  ! 
Be  his  hands  unbound 
And  his  brow  be  crowned 
With  a  chaplet  fresh  and  a  loud  acclaim 
For  the  harper's  harp  and  the  singer's  name ! 
No  !  said  a  voice  through  the  shadows  dim  ; 
Till  the  citadel  and  the  towers  of  Wrong 
Shall  reel  for  the  singer  and  reel  for  his  song, 
There  shall  be  no  crown  for  his  harp  or  him  ! 


374  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Who  shall  be  crowned  ?  I  doubtingly  said, 

In  the  glittering  night  of  the  chill  December ; 
The  fruits  are  gathered,  the  leaves  are  all  dead, 
And  the  fire  of  hope  but  a  single  ember ! 
When  the  sun  shall  rise  on  the  world  again 
By  the  homes  of  men, 

They  will  gather  and  bring 
From  the  ancient  walls  the  ivy,  and  then 
They  will  crown  with  a  crown  their  king. 
Shall  the  man  be  crowned  ?     It  is  he,  it  is  he 
Who  hath  broken  the  chain  and  made  us  free ! 
He  hath  smitten  the  despot's  face  with  a  blow, 
And  the  blood  of  the  slave  no  more  shall  flow 
While  a  man  is  found 
To  be  wreathed  and  crowned  ! 
And  the  cowering  race  shall  arise  and  fling 
Its  manacles  down  at  the  feet  of  the  king ! 
Aye  !  was  the  murmur  that  rose  and  ran 
Around  the  rim  of  the  solemn  night ; 
And  the  morrow  shall  break  with  a  holier  light 
When  we  meet  and  crown  the  man. 


Who  Knows  ? 

HARRY  J.    SHELLMAN. 

WHO  knows  but  that  the  clouds  across  the  sky, 
Foreboding  rain, 
May  be  dispelled  before  the  day  goes  by, 
Nor  come  again  ? 


WHO  KNOWS  ?  375 

Who  knows  but  that  the  heart  bowed  down  with  care, 

And  worldly  grief, 
May  soon  see  fortune  smiling  bright  and  fair, 

And  find  relief  ? 

Who  knows  but  that  some  generous  act  of  men, 

Long  since  forgot, 
Remembered  be  ten-fold  repaid  just  when 

Expected  not  ? 

Who  knows  but  that  the  smallest  coin,  the  mite, 

To  beggar  given, 
May  be  the  seed  to  grow  ;  cause,  given  right, 

A  place  in  Heaven  ? 

Who  knows  but  that  the  battle  fought  and  lost, 

Re-fought,  may  be 
To-morrow  changed  to  give  the  conquered  host 

A  victory  ? 

Who  knows  but  that  the  ship  amid  the  gales, 

A-leak,  storm-tossed, 
May  yet  reach  haven  with  its  wind-rent  sails, 

And  not  be  lost  ? 

****** 

He  knows,  oh,  man !     He  knows,  and  He  alone 

Can  all  this  tell, 
And  if  for  help  you  look  toward  His  throne 

With  faith,  't  is  well. 


376  POETS   AND    POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Charles  Lamb. 

A.  E.  SINKS. 

CLEAR  head  and  earnest  heart  in  him 
Were  one  to  serve  his  friends ; 
And  if  beneath  an  ample  brim 
His  solemn  face  at  times  was  grim, 
His  humor  made  amends. 

They  loved  him  best  who  knew  him  best  — 

Those  Temple  guests  of  old, 
(In  calm  historic  graves  they  rest !) 
But  all  their  praise  has  not  expressed 

The  Man  his  works  unfold. 

In  him  did  wit  and  wisdom  dwell, 

Each  Attic  in  degree  ; 
And  if  sometimes  his  censure  fell 
On  those  he  knew  and  loved  full  well, 

Its  justice  all  could  see. 

The  clouds  that  crossed  his  soul  serene, 

The  crosses  in  him  pent, 
Were  not  by  others  felt  or  seen ; 
The  kindly  eyes  and  quiet  mien 

To  others  gladness  lent. 

Unguessed  the  love  his  boyhood  knew ; 

His  sorrows  found  no  tongue  ; 
His  myrtle  round  the  somber  yew 
With  tender  bloom  in  silence  grew, 

And  to  the  branches  clung. 


CHARLES   LAMB.  377 

He  framed  with  pompous  words  no  rhyme 

To  blazon  private  grief 
Upon  the  brazen  scroll  of  time, 
But  bound,  in  manhood's  strength  and  prime, 

A  pleasure-giving  sheaf. 

What  words  are  there  with  which  to  paint 

This  man  without  disguise  ? 
Dressed  in  a  threadbare  coat  and  quaint, 
And  less  a  sinner  than  a  saint, 

I  seem  to  see  him  rise. 

No  haloed  lights  around  him  play, 

His  voice  is  not  a  psalm ; 
But  hallowed  are  his  locks  of  gray, 
And  smiles  that  o'er  his  features  play 

Through  shadows  of  the  palm. 

We  see  not  here  the  inward  strife, 

The  solemn  questionings 
Which  vext  his  soul  with  yearnings  rife  ; 
The  outward  current  of  his  life 

No  troubled  secret  brings. 

Enough  —  the  vision  fades.     We  trust 

That  in  the  world  above, 
Freed  from  the  stains  of  human  dust, 
He  finds  with  spirits  great  and  just, 

The  fellowship  of  love. 


378  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Venice. 

A.    E.    SINKS. 

THERE  is  a  glorious  city  far  away, 
In  a  lone  sea  of  dark  imposing  gloom 
Whose  sad  waves  murmur  mournfully  at  play 
Around  its  faded  palaces  and  through 
The  arches  of  its  walls,  antique  and  gray ; 
Where  the  soul's  specter  dreams  will  rise  to  view 
In  thoughts  forgotten  since  a  foregone  day ; 
And  life  be  filled  with  deep  emotions,  new 
To  the  mind's  world  as  love's  first  mad  caress, 
Or  visions  of  queen  maidens  who  —  more  fair 
Than  Iran's  houris  clad  in  odorous  dress  — 
Lie  languidly  upon  their  couches  there, 
While  low-sung  songs  of  sin  and  happiness 
Float  upward  through  the  drowsy  moonlight  air. 

The  Blacksmith. 

HUBBARD   M.    SMITH. 


w 


'ITH  an  arm  of  might, 
At  the  dawn  of  light, 
The  blacksmith  hies  to  his  shop  away ; 
To  labor  till 
The  whip-poor-will 
At  ev'ning  sings  his  vesper  lay. 

The  bellows  blow, 

And  the  coals  soon  glow, 


THE   BLACKSMITH.  379 

Like  the  dazzling  rays  of  the  morning  sun ; 

The  huge  sledge  swings, 

And  the  anvil  rings, 
For  the  daily  task  is  now  begun. 

The  sparks  as  bright 

As  the  meteor's  light 
From  the  vivid  metal  swiftly  fly ; 

Whilst  wreaths  of  smoke 

From  the  burning  coke 
In  curling  columns  rise  on  high. 

List !  list !  the  peal, 

As  on  the  steel 
The  hammers  swiftly  fall  with  might, 

Like  clashing  swords 

When  army  hordes 
Contending  meet  in  deadly  fight. 

Though  on  his  brow 

The  sweat  stands  now, 
He  heeds  it  not,  but  toils  away, 

Since  God  has  said 

Man's  daily  bread 
By  labor  shall  be  gained  each  day. 

No  specters  grim 

Appear  to  him 
At  night,  to  mar  his  sweet  repose ; 

For  in  his  mind 

Blessed  peace  is  shrined, 
And  on  his  cheek  health's  hue  e'er  glows. 


380  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

As  thus  he  toils, 

Life's  sad  turmoils 
Are  things  to  him  as  light  as  air; 

For  no  thoughts  rest 

Within  his  breast 
But  those  which  hope  and  love  bring  there. 


Dead  Blossoms. 

SOLOMON   P.    STODDARD. 

IN  the  songful  days  of  June, 
When  the  birds  are  all  atune, 
And  the  honey  feast  is  coming 
For  the  humming-bird  and  bee ; 
Of  all  the  trees  that  grow, 
Or  with  vernal  blossoms  blow, 
The  sweetest  and  the  saddest 
Is  the  lilac  tree. 

For  tho'  purple  is  the  bloom 
That  its  crisping  leaves  assume, 
Like  the  glint  on  lofty  mountains, 
Far  beyond  the  pleasant  sea ; 
Yet  its  freshness  but  deceives, 
For  amid  its  shining  leaves 
There  is  always  a  dead  blossom 
On  the  lilac  tree. 

And  so  it  is  with  all 

That,  in  things  both  great  and  small, 

Of  our  lives  a  distant  gleaming 


A  CHILD   OF  THE   UNIVERSE.  38 1 

In  our  dreaming  we  may  see ; 
For  when  the  heart  is  gladdest, 
Oh,  there's  something  in  it  saddest, 
Like  the  blossom  and  the  blight 
On  the  lilac  tree. 

When  some  cold  December's  blast 
Kills  the  lilac  tree  at  last, 
And  my  heart  so  worn  with  sighing, 
Wails  its  dying  minor  key ; 
Perchance  some  memory  keen 
May  recall  the  bloom  and  green 
Where  now  only  blights  are  seen 
On  the  lilac  tree. 


A  Child  of  the  Universe. 

JULIET    V.     STRAUSS. 

REGRET  not  human  friendships  gone, 
Oh,  heart  of  mine  !     Go,  singing  on  ! 
For  one  who  sings  a  song  shall  hear 
Its  echoes  answering,  sweet  and  clear, 
From  the  deep  haunts  whence  Nature  sends 
Her  loving  greetings  to  her  friends. 
What  though  the  world's  dark  side  I  see  ? 
The  face  of  Nature  smiles  on  me 
From  woodlands  darkling  to  the  west, 
From  hills  in  gray  mist  garments  drest, 
From  hollows  where  clear  waters  flow 
With  murmurs  tremulous  and  low, 


382  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Past  the  old  places  where  my  feet 
Followed  in  days  of  childhood  sweet, 
Seeking,  with  wood-craft  all  untaught, 
What  gifts  the  early  spring  had  brought. 
What  though  no  human  heart  is  near, 
No  voice  to  soothe,  to  call  me  dear, 
The  silence  thunders  in  my  ears 
With  messages  none  other  hears  ? 
The  dark  pines  whisper  tenderly  ; 
They  nod  —  they  wave  their  hands  to  me  ! 
The  night  calls  to  me,  and  the  rain ; 
The  snowflakes  'gainst  my  window  pane 
Are  white-winged  carrier  birds  that  bear 
Me  greetings  from  the  upper  air. 
The  wind  walks  with  me,  talking  low, 
Or  follows  after,  where  I  go. 
Sometimes  he  runs  in  playful  freak 
To  press  cold  kisses  on  my  cheek, 
Or  catch  my  tresses'  loosened  strands 
Or  blows  brown  leaves  to  kiss  my  hands. 
And  sometimes  in  my  lonely  room 
The  sunlight  falls  athwart  the  gloom  — 
I  smile,  because  all  silently 
A  friend  looks  in  and  smiles  at  me. 


HIDDEN   FIRES.  383 

Hidden   Fires. 

JULIET   V.    STRAUSS. 

SO  strong  within  my  bosom  burned 
The  sacred  flame  of  poesy, 
Cold,  world-wise  faces  from  me  turned, 
Though  some  looked  back  and  pitied  me ! 

So,  then,  lest  men  should  see  that  flame 
Alight  on  lip  and  cheek  and  eye, 
I  banked  my  fires,  and  covered  them 
Because  I  could  not  let  them  die. 

Then  eagerly  I  sought  for  those 
Whose  hearts  burned  incense  like  my  own, 
For  friends  to  whom  I  might  disclose 
The  altar  where  my  offering  shone. 

I  could  not  bear  to  live  and  die 

From  human  fellowship  apart ; 

But  while  I  sought  society, 

The  hidden  flames  consumed  my  heart. 

Now,  since  this  rare  poetic  age 
Has  dawned,  men  seek  the  hidden  shrine 
Wherein  there  glowed  in  other  days 
The  fervor  of  that  flame  divine, 

And  cry,  "  Show  us  what  men  did  spurn  !  " 
I  make  some  smiling,  light  reply  — 
Lest  they  should  glimpse  the  burned-out  urn 
Wherein  a  few  white  ashes  lie  ! 


384  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Hesperides. 


MRS.    MARTINA   SWAFFORD. 


WE  read  of  a  marvelous  island  fair, 
A  charming  story  and  quaintly  told, 
And  a  wonderful  garden  lying  there, 

Whose  trees  bear  apples  of  yellow  gold. 
It  is  said  if  you  sail  away,  away, 

On  the  pulsing  seas  to  the  shining  west 
Steadily  on,  you  will  come  some  day, 
With  favoring  breeze  to  the  island  blest. 

But  eye  of  mortal  has  never  seen 

The  mythic  isle  of  the  western  seas, 
With  its  garden  bright  in  the  flashing  sheen 

Of  golden  fruit  on  the  magic  trees ; 
You  may  gaze,  and  gaze,  where  the  cloudlands  pile 

Their  sunset  gold,  till  your  eyes  are  dim, 
You  never  will  sight  the  Hesper  isle 

Though  you  sail  to  the  ocean's  farthest  rim. 

There's  a  wider  sea  in  its  ebb  and  flow, 

And  ever  its  shifting  waves  are  curled 
Round  ships  that  sail  and  the  ships  below  — 

The  sea  of  Life,  and  it  laps  the  world ; 
And  bright  as  a  gem  in  this  circling  sea, 

On  a  happy  isle,  'neath  tropic  skies, 
When  the  crimson  current  is  swift  and  free, 

A  garden  of  golden  fruitage  lies. 


HESPERIDES.  385 

But  once,  in  sailing  the  wide  sea  o'er, 

We  sight  this  beautiful  wonder-land, 
The  garden  of  Youth,  with  its  precious  store ; 

Once  only  our  feet  will  touch  the  strand 
Where  the  rosiest  curtains  ever  drape 

The  windows  of  Day  with  a  shining  mist, 
Where  the  bloom  is  still  on  the  purple  grape, 

The  blush  on  the  peach  the  sun  god  kissed. 


But  one  brief  day  in  the  garden  is  ours, 

To  have  and  hold  till  the  sun  goes  down ; 
To  eat  of  the  fruit  and  pluck  the  flowers, 

And  gather  the  clustering  nuts  of  brown : 
And  the  hours  go  by  on  winged  feet ; 

Ah  !  never  were  hours  so  dear  as  these, 
Where  the  golden  fruit  that  we  pluck  and  eat 

Is  sweet  as  honey  from  Hybla's  bees. 

Then  the  sun  slips  over  the  western  wall ; 

The  gold  fades  out  of  the  twilight  sky, 
And  darkly  the  evening  shadows  fall ; 

Our  day  is  now  with  the  things  gone  by ; 
And  our  boat  is  ready  to  sail,  alas ! 

For  down  by  the  shore  the  boatman  calls, 
And  so  with  lingering  steps  we  pass 

Forever  outside  the  enchanted  walls. 


386  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 


Mid-life. 

HENRY   W.    TAYLOR. 

MY  brother,  let  me  feel  thy  palm, 
Hard  pressed  against  my  own ; 
In  this  first  battle  with  the  world, 

We  are  not  overthrown. 
We  lie  upon  our  arms  to-night, 
Miles  front  of  where  we  lay, 
And  wait  with  eager  confidence 
The  coming  of  the  day. 

We've  counted  up  the  meager  spoil 

Of  this  hard-foughten  field  ; 
Some  banners,  guns,  and  fortresses, 

Fate  is  compelled  to  yield. 
We  pause  to  bury,  too,  our  dead, 

Our  best-loved  dead  that  fell, 
Our  hearts  their  only  monuments,  — 

They'll  sleep,  no  doubt,  as  well. 

My  brother  !     E'er  the  morning  star 

Above  the  east  hills  shine, 
We  shall  have  belted  on  our  swords 

And  foimed  again  our  line. 
To-morrow  is  a  fateful  day  ; 

Which  way  will  go  the  strife  ? 
It  is  the  final  battle  eve 

Before  the  night  of  life. 


THE   HYKSOS.  387 

What  then  ?     Could  we  go,  satisfied, 

Into  the  shadow  land, 
If  on  the  battle's  further  edge, 

We  stayed  our  conquering  hand  ? 
My  brother,  let  me  feel  thy  palm 

Hard  pressed  against  my  own; 
Go  we  together  to  the  fight, 

We  cannot  be  o'erthrown. 


M 


The   Hyksos. 

HENRY   W.    TAYLOR. 

Y  heart  stirs  fluttering  in  my  breast 
At  the  first  south-blown  clouds  of  spring, 


And  moves  me  to  a  strange  unrest 
The  whistle  of  a  wild  duck's  wing. 

The  first  warm  glance  the  sun  doth  fling 
Lifts  the  pale  grasses  where  they  lie, 

And  to  my  ear  the  west  winds  bring 
The  prairie  chicken's  lonesome  cry. 

And  following  each  its  several  bent, 

The  free  winds  rustling  come  and*go ; 
They  fan  my  brow  with  discontent, 

They  drive  wild  restless  waves  that  grow 
Upon  my  calm  life's  placid  flow, 

And  sudden  floods  resistless  pour 
Where  grassy  banks,  down  sloping  low, 

The  swelling  stream  restrain  no  more. 


388  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

I  would  be  gone  I  know  not  where ! 

I  would  some  nobler  thought  might  thrill 
My  soul  than  yet !     Down  from  the  bare 

Cropped  pastures  of  thy  old-time  hill, 
Dwelling  in  tents  that  fold  at  will, 

Brown  Shepherd  Sire !  descends  from  thee 
This  legacy  of  habit.     Still, 

The  Nomad's  spirit  stirs  in  me. 


Paradise. 

HOWARD  S.  TAYLOR. 

WE  took  the  fruit  from  the  strange  god  who  came 
to  us; 
Ate  of  the  fruit  that  doth  make  a  man  wise ; 
Ate  with  heart-hunger  —  and  who  shall  lay  blame  to  us  ? 

—  Who  that  hath  eaten  and  opened  his  eyes? 
Yea,  though  the  eating  were  woe  to  the  eater, 

Yet  did  we  take  it  and  welcome  the  rod, 
For  it  gave  us  a  rapture  a  thousand  times  sweeter 
Than  everything  else  in  the  garden  of  God  ! 

(Ah,  could  the  sentries  at  Eden's  strait  portal, 

The  great,  surly  CJienibim,  angry  and  mute, 

Could  they  know  our  deligJit  they  would  long  to  be  mortal 

And  barter  their  swords  for  a  taste  of  the  fruit.*) 

Exiled  to  liberty  —  glad  to  be  banished  — 

Still  do  we  eat  of  the  mystical  tree ! 
—  A  dear  recollection  of  days  that  have  vanished, 

A  song  or  a  dream  of  the  days  yet  to  be ! 


THE  CRUSADER'S   TOMB.  389 

Wreathed  with  wild  asters  and  plumed  with  gay  grasses, 
Thrilled  with  the  passion  of  meadow  and  wood, 

Tracking  the  footprints  of  Pan  where  he  passes, 
Lo,  we  are  gods  knowing  evil  and  good  ! 


The  Crusader's  Tomb. 

JOHN    N.    TAYLOR. 


HIS  warfare  is  done  and  he  rests  from  his  toil, 
Where  the  winds  nightly  moan  through  the  tran- 
sept and  aisle, 
Where   his  warders   stand   grim   in  the  long-gathered 

gloom, 
Where  his  hatchments  are  dim  as  they  hang  o'er  his 

tomb, 
And  the  soft,  silvery  moon  on  his  helmeted  head 
Rests  like  a  dream  of  a  day  that  is  dead. 

11. 

A  day  when  exultant  he  rode  to  the  field, 

The  cross  of  his  faith  gleaming  red  on  his  shield, 

And  saw  rolling  on  like  the  flood  of  the  sea, 

The  turbaned  hosts  of  the  wild  Osmanli ; 

Their  myriad  wild  cry  loud  uprising  afar 

Like  the  locust's  descent  on  the  plains  of  Chinaar, 

The  gleam  of  their  steel  as  it  right  and  left  flies 

Like  the  streamers  that  reel  on  his  own  northern  skies. 


390  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

III. 

Oh  !  fierce  was  the  joy  then  that  shook  his  proud  breast, 
As  their  visors  they  closed,  flung  their  lances  at  rest ! 
A  whirlwind  of  steel  they  swept  down  on  the  foe, 
While  the  infidel  ranks  fell  apart  at  the  blow, 
And  they  stayed  not  their  hands  till  the  sands  they  had 

strown 
With  turbans  like  poppies  the  simoon  has  blown  ; 
Till  the  Saracens  flying,  and  scattering  flight, 
On  the  rim  of  the  desert  were  lost  to  their  sight. 

IV. 

But  his  warfare  is  done,  and  he  rests  from  his  toil 
Where  the  winds  nightly  moan    through  the  transept 

and  aisle, 
Where    his  warders   stand    grim   in    the  long-gathered 

gloom, 
Where   his  hatchments  are  dim  as  they  hang  o'er  his 

tomb, 
And  the  soft,  silvery  moon  on  his  helmeted  head 
Rests  like  a  dream  of  a  day  that  is  dead. 


The  Tender  and    True. 

JOHN   N.    TAYLOR. 

HIS  bugle  is  silent,  his  steed  is  awa', 
And  oft  howls  his  dog  at  the  door  of  the  ha' ; 
The  stag  crouches  lang  'mang  the  reeds  on  the  shore, 
For  the  blithe  horn  o'  Ronald  will  rouse  him  no  more ; 


THE  TENDER  AND   TRUE.  39 1 

His  proud  heart  it  brak,  and  he  fled  frae  his  hame, 
To  fall  'mid  the  foe  on  the  field  o'  his  fame, 
With  her  name  on  his  cauld  lips,  wha  sairly  will  rue 
That  she  knew  not  the  worth  of  the  tender  and  true. 

His  heart  it  was  light,  and  his  spirit  as  free 
As  the  west  wind  that  pipes  to  the  swell  o'  the  sea  ; 
The  strength  o'  his  youth  like  the  oak  in  its  pride, 
That  chants  to  the  blue  o'  the  Ben-Lomond  side. 
But  the  coronach  cries  o'er  the  gallant  and  brave 
Whose  life  has  gone  out  in  the  gloom  o'  the  grave, 
Whose  bright  locks  are  wet  in  the  dank  and  the  dew 
That  weeps  in  her  stead  o'er  the  tender  and  true. 

She's  fair  as  a  lily  in  the  weet  of  the  morn, 
The  red  o'  her  cheek  like  the  rose  on  its  thorn ; 
With  her  lang,  gowden  hair,  and  the  glint  o'  her  ee, 
Like  the  blue  o'  the  harebell  that  blows  on  the  lea. 
But  her  heart  it  was  false  and  her  words  aye  were  guile, 
And  she  toyed  with  the  love  she  had  won  with  her  smile  ; 
Now  sairly  she's  sighin'  and  lang  will  she  rue 
That  she  wounded  the  heart  that  was  tender  and  true. 

There'll  be  tears  in  her  blue  een  when  low  in  the  west 
The  sun  glimmers  red  o'er  the  Ben-Lomond  <*rest ; 
She'll  sob  and  she'll  weep  in  the  flush  o'  the  morn, 
To  hear  the  far  wind  o'  the  wild  bugle  horn. 
With  the  roses  she'll  fade,  with  the  lilies  that  fa' 
In  the  sough  o'  the  wind  round  the  now  dreary  ha'. 
Ah  !  bitterly  greetin',  lang,  lang  will  she  rue 
That  she  brak  the  proud  heart  that  was  tender  and  true. 


392  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Epicurus. 

MINNETTA   T.    TAYLOR. 

HE  sang  a  song  he  did  not  know ; 
He  wove  a  web  of  knotted  threads ; 
He  dreamed  of  rivers  murmuring  low, 

Of  asphodel  and  flowery  beds, 
And  thought  that  mortal  lives  below 
Some  share  of  heavenly  bliss  might  show. 

They  say,  in  grave,  censorious  mood, 
He  taught  that  Pleasure  was  a  god  ; 

He  smiled  at  evil,  scorned  the  good, 
And  cared  not  so  his  level  road 

Wound  ever  through  some  pleasant  wood, 

Or  sunny  plain  where  asters  stood. 

But  I,  I  deem  the  censure  wrong  : 
I  think  of  him  as  one  who  made 

A  melody,  whose  liquid  song 

Through  endless,  varying  cadence  played ; 

Then  gave  his  time  and  labor  long 

To  teach  it  to  the  general  throng. 

And  catching  up  the  chords,  in  sooth, 
They  sang  them  harshly,  jangling  on  ; 

But  spite  of  all  the  teacher's  ruth, 

Heard  not  the  words  till  they  were  gone, 

Nor  ever  guessed  that  faith  and  truth 

Are  better  things  than  strength  and  youth. 


THE  CAMPAGNA.  393 

That  in  the  mighty  triune  one 

Of  blended  body,  mind,  and  soul, 
The  spirit  power  reigns  king  alone, 

Holds  perfect  peace  in  its  control, 
And  looking  downward  from  life's  throne, 
Calls  even  joy's  best  gifts  its  own. 

They  whom  he  taught  knew  not,  but  gave 

The  soul  to  be  the  body's  thrall ; 
And  leading  mind  a  crouching  slave, 
Made  sensual  pleasure  lord  of  all, 
And  said,  "  These  years  are  all  we  have, 
There  is  no  joy  beyond  the  grave." 

And  so  men  speak  of  him  to  rail, 

To  say,  "  Ah,  sin  !  he  wronged  the  world, 

He  made  the  cheek  of  virtue  pale  !  " 
But  pity  him  !  he  backward  hurled 

The  heavy  folds  of  Isis'  veil, 

To  see  the  truth,  and  then  —  to  fail. 


The  Campagna. 

MINNETTA    T.     TAYLOR. 

THEY  bought  the  pleasant,  fertile  plain, 
The  golden  plain,  the  plain  of  Rome, 
Its  olives,  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Its  broad  canals  by  many  a  home. 


394  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

They  bought  it,  and  the  city  smiled, 
Or  went  unheeding  on  its  way, 

By  greed  and  pomp  and  strength  beguiled, 
The  idle  pageant  of  a  day. 

So  fell  the  shadow  of  the  lords, 
A  little  shadow,  made  at  noon ; 

But  force  lay  back  of  winged  words, 
The  shadow  grew  and  darkened  soon. 

Unwise  to  feed  so  many  men, 

Who  needs  must  eat  ere  they  could  toil ; 
So  much  of  grain  returned  again 

To  those  mere  tillers  of  the  soil. 

The  owners  made  the  plain  a  mead, 
A  grassy  ocean  swelling  green, 

Whereon  their  wealthy  flocks  might  feed, 
With  here  and  there  a  herdsman  seen. 

The  masters  and  the  herdsmen  died ; 

The  land  was  bound  in  phantom  chain, 
It  still  belonged  to  absent  pride, 

It  festered  in  the  heaven's  rain. 

The  good  soil  murmured  in  the  night, 
Uncared  for ;  it  rebelled  by  day ; 

The  nettles  of  an  evil  spite 

Choked  up  each  winding  waterway. 

The  human  heritage  of  hope 

Was  changed,  at  last,  to  useless  care  ; 

The  open  country's  flowery  scope 
Became  a  narrow,  fixed  despair. 


MINNETTA    TIIEoDORA    TAYLOR. 


THE  TROMBONE.  395 

And  now  it  is  a  desert  place, 

A  vast,  gray,  empty,  hungry  death, 

That  stares  at  Rome  with  threatening  face, 
And  poisons  her  with  fever  breath. 

The  vulture  loves  the  desert  pale ; 

He  stoops  and  listens  to  the  sea, 
If  he  may  hear  the  self-same  tale 

Told,  O  America,  of  thee. 

The  Trombone. 

TUCKER   WOODSON   TAYLOR. 

OTHE  wild,  wizard  way  of  the  trombone ! 
The  mightily  palm-thrown, 
Mellowy,  calm-blown, 
Billowy,  willowy  trombone ! 
Look  at  it  bobbing 
And  all  the  time  throbbing 
And  thrilling  with  tones 
That  no  other  horn  owns  ! 
When  the  trombonist  learns 
All  its  "  to's  and  returns  ;  " 
When  he  finds  the  full  swing 
Of  the  difficult  thing, 
And  can  make  it  resound  and  redound, 
Without  running  it  into  the  ground ; 
When  he  gets  ev'ry  sound,  at  a  single  bound, 
That  in  the  gamut  can  be  found, 

And  more,  too, 

Running  through 


396  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

With  a  kind  of  gliding, 
Soothing,  appetizing, 
Gently  tantalizing 
Sort  of  sliding, 
So  confiding ; 

When  he  rushes  to  and  fro 
Like  a  comet  full  of  woe, 
With  ferocious  chiding, 
Up,  up,  down,  down, 

With  a  flush  and  a  frown, 
Then  retires  to  a  dignified,  far-off  abiding,  — 
How  surely  he  sways  ! 
How  grandly  he  plays  ! 

O  this  fascinating  trumpet, 
With  its  changefulness  of  curve, 
And  its  vacillating  master, 
With  his  endlessness  of  nerve  — 
With  his  motto,  "  Blow,  blow,  blow  and  never  tire  "  - 
Are  a  couple  full  of  wonder  — 
For  philosophers  to  ponder  — 
That  make  music-loving  multitudes  admire  ! 
Now  you  go  ! 
How  you  go ! 
Back  it ! 

Rack  it ! 

Crack  it ! 

Rock  it ! 

Sock  it ! 

Shock  it ! 
Shake  it ! 
Make  it ! 
Quake  it ! 


THE  TROMBONE.  397 

Wakes  its  wild  echoes  far  out,  so  far  out, 
And  so  strangely  resounds  all  about,  all  about ! 
Pull  it  in 
To  your  chin  ! 
Then  away  with  it  yonder,  to  stay,  to  stay ! 

O  oh  ??????????????????????????? 
O  ho??????????????????????????????????????????? 
O  ho  ???????????????????????????????????????????????????? 
O  hey !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
Steady  play ! 
Play  on  for  aye ! 
With  a  blast  loud  and  gay, 

Or  a  melody  pleasant, 
Enfolding  the  present 

In  ringing  delight, 
And  putting  to  flight 

All  visions  of  sorrows 
From  seeming  to-morrows. 
Thou  wizard,  wild  way 
Of  the  trombone,  pray 
Be  forever  a  part 
Of  the  musical  art 
Of  the  ever-enduring  to-day  ! 


'£> 


398  POETS   AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

Old   Ben  to  his  Violin. 

MRS.    E.    S.    L.   THOMPSON. 

IS  it  dark  there  in  the  corner, 
My  dear  old  violin  ? 
Thy  strings  are  broken,  and  my  heart ; 
Thy  tunes  were  of  my  soul  a  part. 
Good-by,  old  violin  ! 

How  oft  we  dropt  from  grave  to  gay, 

Thou  sweet  old  violin  ; 
Beneath  fair  skies,  with  one  who  sleeps 
Where  low  the  weeping  willow  weeps, 

I  tuned  thee,  violin  ! 

I  —  I  was  young  !     My  heart  was  June, 

Rememb'rest,  violin  ? 
You  told  no  tales  when  Love  and  I 
Went  wooing  'neath  a  summer  sky, 

Dear,  faithful  violin  ! 

Could'st  thou  not  wake  from  out  the  sleep 

Oblivion  of  years  ? 
Perhaps  one  tune  would  make  me  weep 
Where  mem'ry's  sacred  tryst  I  keep 

With  sobs  too  deep  for  tears. 

Roll,  roll  away  the  burial  stone 

This  hour,  old  violin  ! 
Of  love  departed,  hope  all  gone, 
Bring  back  the  stars  which  nightly  shone, 

Once  tuneful  violin ! 


ATALANTA.  399 

Atalanta. 

MAURICE   THOMPSON. 

(By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  er5  Co.) 

WHEN  spring  grows  old,  and  sleepy  winds 
Set  from  the  south  with  odors  sweet, 
I  see  my  love,  in  green,  cool  groves, 
Speed  down  dusk  aisles  on  shining  feet. 

She  throws  a  kiss  and  bids  me  run, 
In  whispers  sweet  as  roses'  breath  ; 
I  know  I  cannot  win  the  race, 
And  at  the  end,  I  know,  is  death. 

But  joyfully  I  bare  my  limbs, 
Anoint  me  with  the  tropic  breeze, 
And  feel  through  every  sinew  thrill 
The  vigor  of  Hippomenes. 

Oh,  race  of  love  !  we  all  have  run 

Thy  happy  course  through  groves  of  spring, 

And  cared  not,  when  at  last  we  lost, 

For  life  or  death  or  anything  ! 


400  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Diana. 

{The  Goddess  of  the  Chase.) 

MAURICE   THOMPSON. 

{By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  6°  Co.) 

SHE  had  a  bow  of  yellow  horn 
Like  the  old  moon  at  early  morn. 

She  had  three  arrows  strong  and  good, 
Steel  set  in  feathered  cornel  wood. 

Like  purest  pearl  her  left  breast  shone 
Above  her  kirtle's  emerald  zone ; 

Her  right  was  bound  in  silk  well  knit, 
Lest  her  bowstring  should  sever  it. 

Ripe  lips  she  had  and  clear  gray  eyes, 
And  hair,  pure  gold,  blown  hoyden-wise 

Across  her  face,  like  shining  mist 
That  with  dawn's  flush  is  faintly  kissed. 

Her  limbs  !  how  matched  and  round  and  fine  ! 
How  free  like  song  !  how  strong  like  wine ! 

And  timed  to  music  wild  and  sweet, 
How  swift  her  silver-sandaled  feet ! 

Single  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 
Windlike  she  wandered  through  the  land. 


THE   QUEST.  4°  I 

No  man  (or  king  or  lord  or  churl) 
Dared  whisper  love  to  that  fair  girl. 

And  woe  to  him  who  came  upon 
Her,  nude,  at  bath,  like  Acteon ! 

So  dire  his  fate,  that  one  who  heard 
The  nutter  of  a  bathing  bird, 

What  time  he  crossed  a  breezy  wood, 
Felt  sudden  quickening  of  his  blood ; 

Cast  one  swift  look,  then  ran  away 

Far  through  the  green,  thick  groves  of  May ; 

Afeared,  lest  down  the  wind  of  spring 
He'd  hear  an  arrow  whispering. 


The   Quest. 

MRS.    OLLAH    TOPH. 

My  soul  went  up  into  the  mountain-top. 

****** 

AND  the  dream  of  my  life  rose  up  and  said  : 
"  Soul,  with  what  have  you  clothed  yourself,  that 
you 
Of  gross  creation  come  into  the  place 
Reserved  for  gods  and  dreams?     How  found  you  path 
Where  only  angels  tread  —  angels  and  I 
Whose  brothers  angels  are  ?     Oh,  Soul,  answer." 


402  POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

But  then,  tho'  words  of  varied  meaning  stirred 
Within  my  heart,  as  stirs  a  child  beneath 
The  mother-life  waiting  the  hour  of  birth, 
I  could  not  bring  them  forth,  but  silent  stood. 

Where  gods  do  dwell  the  air  is  rarefied. 

I  put  my  hand  unto  my  throat  and  felt 

The  blood  bound  up  as  though  'twould  leap  the  flesh. 

Not  here  my  place,  but  in  the  vale  below. 

And  yet  I  thought  the  dream  had  called  me  hence, 

Had  wrapped  itself  about  my  heart  and  sung 

To  me,  long  nights,  of  these  Olympian  heights. 

And  now  these  vexing  questions  that  my  lips 

Refused  an  answer  to  !     God,  that  a  dream 

Should  lead  man  into  such  a  fruitless  quest ! 

The  dream  drew  close  —  so  close  my  soul  was  lost 

In  its  delicious  haze.     And  then  there  grew 

Out  of  the  mighty  silence,  music,  sweet 

As  when  the  interchange  of  thought  and  love 

Makes  harmony  for  all  the  universe. 

All  things  were  blent  into  that  rare  concord 

Of  sound ;  the  voice  of  bird  and  beast  and  man, 

All  music  —  echoes  of  the  infinite. 

The  great  world,  singing  as  it  swung  its  round, 

Rang  forth  one  chord  of  nature's  symphony. 

And  thinking  of  the  morning  stars,  myself 
Became  a  melody  incarnated  ; 
Each  aspiration,  each  desire  a  tone 


THE   QUEST.  403 

So  sweet  it  seemed  the  longing  realized. 

Each  thought  toward  higher  things  and  purer  life 

Made  manifest  in  cadenced  joy  ;  each  deed 

Of  righteousness  incorporated  there 

This  purpose  of  my  destiny  :  to  live 

So  that  upon  the  mountain  brow  I  might 

Be  worthy  to  make  music  for  the  world. 

****** 
My  soul  went  up  into  the  mountain-top. 

****** 

And  the  dream  of  my  life  rose  up  and  said  : 

"  Soul,  do  you  understand  ?  "  and  I  said,  "  Yea, 

Dear  dream,  the  vale  is  consecrated  now. 

I  go  the  way  I  came,  and  wait  that  day 

When  I  shall  dwell  with  gods  and  dreams  and  know 

This  truth  :  that  perfect  song  expression  hath 

In  humblest  work  no  tone  so  poor  but  counts. 

Yea,  dream,  I  understand,  and  thou,  my  quest, 

Art  not  a  fruitless  one  since  thou  hast  ope'd 

My  blinded  eyes  to  knowledge  of  myself." 

****** 

And  my  soul  was  alone  hi  the  mountain-top. 


404  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

My   Valentine. 

WILLIAM   B.    VICKERS. 

TURN  back,  oh,  time,  thy  tempest  flight, 
The  busy  day,  the  restless  night, 
The  years  that  slip  so  swiftly  past, 
The  centuries  that  cannot  last, 
And  let  a  healing  touch  of  thine 
Renew  the  youth  of  Valentine. 

Roused  from  his  mediaeval  sleep, 

I  know  the  good  old  saint  would  weep 

To  see  the  uses  base  and  low 

That  time  has  brought  his  memory  to, 

But  bright  through  all  the  ages  shine 

The  virtues  of  St.  Valentine. 

Love  loses  nothing  of  its  worth, 
And  beauty  bides  upon  the  earth, 
The  same  to-day  as  when  of  old, 
With  sweetest  song  the  lover  bold, 
Decked  like  a  bridegroom  rare  and  fine, 
Came  forth  to  greet  his  Valentine. 

His  Valentine  ?     Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
She  dawned  upon  him  like  the  May, 
In  distant  isles  whose  radiance 
Reflects  the  morning's  brightest  glance, 
But  not  less  fair  and  brightly  shine 
The  graces  of  my  Valentine. 


FAITH.  405 

I  do  not  rave  about  her  eyes, 
Nor  laud  her  beauty  to  the  skies, 
But  she  is  beautiful  to  me, 
And  in  her  love-lit  eyes  I  see 
A  liquid  light  like  ruby  wine, 
The  soul  of  my  sweet  Valentine. 

She  is  not  grave,  nor  gay,  nor  yet 
Doth  pride  its  seal  upon  her  set, 
Else  I  had  never  won  her  love, 
To  prize  all  earthly  gifts  above, 
But  gentle  graces  all  combine 
In  her,  my  precious  Valentine. 

Her  speech  the  voice  of  wisdom  is, 
And  golden  are  her  silences, 
Her  smiles  are  set  to  music  sweet, 
Her  love  is  like  the  waves  that  beat 
Upon  the  shore  in  ceaseless  line, 
And  so  I  love  my  Valentine. 


Faith. 

LUTHER   DANA   WATERMAN. 

ALL  things  are  perfect  to  their  perfect  end  ; 
From  perfect  cause  imperfect  cannot  come. 
Whatever  has  not  harmony  is  false. 
There  is  a  truth  will  harmonize  all  things : 
It  ever  tends  to  show  the  sweet  accord 
That  joins  all  things  together  in  their  aims. 


406  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF   INDIANA. 

The  false  is  always  but  a  part  of  truth. 
Man's  earthly  eye  can  only  partly  see, 
And  discord  sees ;  but  to  his  spirit-eye 
Some  discords  blend  to  concord  ;  and  so  faith 
Sweeps  on  from  part  to  whole  and  sees 
The  glorious  aim  that  unisons  all  things. 


Philosophy  and  Poetry. 

LUTHER   DANA   WATERMAN. 

PHILOSOPHY  and  numbers  and  high  poetry 
Are  not  mere  phantoms  of  a  mortal  soul, 
Brief  emanations  of  the  life-lit  clay. 
They  are  the  radii  of  the  infinite, 
And  mark  the  limits  of  the  human  soul : 
They  measure  well  the  power  divine  in  man. 
When  dies  the  man  from  matter's  grosser  form, 
And  grows  the  soul  too  strong  for  chemistry, 
And  takes  the  purpose  from  its  organed  mold, 
And  all  the  life-pulse  earthward  ebbs  again, 
Then  man  shall  lose  no  knowledge  that  he  wins, 
And  only  find  it  less  in  knowing  more ; 
And  know  it  better  as  he  knows  the  more ; 
Finding  each  truth  a  part  of  Nature's  whole. 


AN   AUTUMN   REVERIE.  407 

An   Autumn   Reverie. 

MRS.    HATTIE   M.    WESTCOTT. 

THE  autumn  leaves  are  falling,  the  summer   days 
have  fled, 
Each    faded   leaf    recalling   some   summer   long   since 

dead. 
The  wind  sweeps  o'er  the  stubble  and  down  the  valley 

road, 
And  life  is  full  of  trouble  and  heavier  grows  its  load. 

If  lilies  and  if  roses  would  only  never  fade, 

If  violets  and  daisies  forever  with  us  stayed, 

If  emerald  vale  and  meadow  would  wear  eternal  green, 

Ah,  never  would  a  shadow  come  o'er  the  summer  scene. 

If  life  were  always  changeless  and  love  forever  true, 
If  hope  for  each  newcomer,  and  joy  we  only  knew, 
If  never  any  sorrow  came  o'er  the  human  heart, 
There'd  never  be  a  morrow  when  friends  would  need 
to  part. 

Beyond  us  and  above  us  we  hear  an  echo  fall, 
It  reaches  those  who  love  us  in  palace  or  in  hall, 
It  sings  the  song  of  ages  that  were  and  are  to  be, 
And  opens  wide  the  pages  that  some  may  never  see. 

We  listen  and  we  linger,  and  still  the  days  go  by ; 
We  watch  the  Sybil's  finger  beneath  a  darkening  sky,  — 
We  hear  the  whispered  warning,  but  still  we  do  not  heed 
The  lesson,  night  or  morning,  tho'  hearts  may  break  or 
bleed. 


408  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  INDIANA. 

Oh,  sunshine  in  the  meadow  this  pleasant  afternoon, 
Why  is  it  that  the  shadow  must  follow  on  so  soon  ? 
Why  is  it  that  the  blossoms,  the  white,  the  blue,  the  red, 
Are  falling  on  earth's  bosom,  their  fragile  beauty  fled  ? 

A  type,  alas,  of  mortals  who  come  on  earth  to  bloom, 
Then  pass  between  the  portals  that  open  to  the  tomb. 
Life  hath  its  meed  of  gladness,  but  ah,  so  brief  its  stay, 
It  leaves  behind  it  sadness  that  never  goes  away. 


Distrust  —  Faith. 

MRS.   L.    MAY   WHEELER. 

WHY  look  at  the  Sun  with  a  frown  ? 
Why  fret  at  the  hot  breath  of  day  ? 
Why  fume  at  the  dust  of  the  town 
And  scowl  at  the  breezes  at  play  ? 
The  Sun  is  the  God  of  the  day, 

The  day  is  the  kingdom  of  light, 
The  dust  is  a  gleam  with  its  ray, 

Your  breath  but  a  speck  of  its  might. 

Why  look  for  a  thorn  with  the  rose  ? 

Why  search  for  a  poison  with  bloom  ? 
Why  wake  from  a  couch  of  repose, 
If  the  morn  but  heralds  a  gloom  ? 
The  rose  is  a  kiss  from  the  Sun, 

The  bloom  is  but  tracings  of  light, 
And  Sleep  is  God's  dream-life  begun, 
To  eyes  that  see  only  the  right. 


THE   MAGIC   PITCHER.  409 

Why  ever  take  friend  to  thy  heart  ? 

Why  ever  clasp  love  to  thy  breast  ? 
Why  be  of  this  world  e'en  a  part, 
If  faith  have  no  lot  in  thy  quest  ? 

'T  was  love,  in  the  first  morning  beam, 
That  sang  with  the  stars  in  the  blue, 
And  faith's  the  foreshadowing  dream 
Of  love  everlastingly  true. 


Illusions. 

MRS.    L.    MAY   WHEELER. 

A  GLEAM,  like  a  star  'mid  heaven's  blue, 
Swells  and  unfolds  in  a  bubble's  hue. 
A  breath  or  a  life  fares  on  its  way, 
Long-traveled  or  brief,  it  seems  but  a  day. 

A  flash,  and  lo !  the  bubble  is  gone ; 
A  flutter,  and  life's  last  breath  is  drawn ; 
The  bubble's  illusion  was  tinted  fair: 
The  life,  is  it  but  a  swirl  of  air  ? 


The  Magic   Pitcher. 

MRS.   ELIZABETH   CONWELL   WILLSON. 

I  KNOW  an  ancient  story  of  a  maid 
Who  broke  her  golden  pitcher  at  the  well, 
And  wept  therefor ;  when  came  a  voice,  that  said, 
"  Peace,  sorrowing  child ;  behold  the  magic  spell 


410  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 

Wherewith  I  make  thy  loss  a  certain  gain !  " 
Then  through  her  tears  she  saw  a  shape  of  light 
Before  her  ;  and  a  lily,  wet  with  rain 
Or  dew,  was  in  his  hands  —  all  snowy  white. 

Then  stood  the  maiden  hushed  in  sweet  surprise, 
And  with  her  clasped  hands  held  her  heart-throbs  down, 
Beneath  the  wondrous  brightness  of  his  eyes, 
Whose  smile  seemed  to  enwreathe  her  like  a  crown. 
He  raised  no  wand  ;  he  gave  no  strange  commands  ; 
But  touched  her  eyes  with  tender  touch  and  light, 
With  charmed  lips  kissed  apart  her  folded  hands, 
And  laid  therein  the  lily,  snowy  white. 

Then,  as  the  south  wind  breathes  in  summer  lands, 
He  breathed  upon  the  lily-bloom  ;  and  lo  ! 
Its  curling  leaves  expanded  in  her  hands, 
And  shaped  a  magic  pitcher  white  as  snow, 
Gemmed  with  the  living  jewels  of  the  dew, 
And  brimmed  with  overflows  of  running  light. 
Then  came  the  voice,  the  mystic  voice  she  knew  : 
"  Drink  of  the  lily  waters,  pure  and  bright, 

Thou  little  maiden  by  the  well,"  it  said, 
"  And  give  to  all  who  thirst,  the  waters  cool ; 
So  shall  thy  grieving  heart  be  comforted ; 
So  shall  thy  pitcher  evermore  be  full !  " 
Then,  as  the  sunlight  fades  in  twilight  wood, 
He  faded  in  the  magic  of  the  spell ; 
While,  mute  with  joy,  the  little  maiden  stood, 
Clasping  her  magic  pitcher  by  the  well. 


THE   VILLAGE   GRAVEYARD.  4II 

The  Village  Graveyard. 

MRS.   ELIZABETH  CONWELL  WILLSON. 

THE  beacon  on  the  cliff  is  dead  ; 
And,  drifted  from  its  altar-height, 
Fall  broken  embers  warm  and  red, 

Like  blood  slow  dropping  through  the  night ; 

And  in  the  upland  wood  close  by, 

The  dark  is  strewn  with  arrowy  gleams ; 

And  fragments  of  the  moonlight  lie 
Across  night's  fitful  hush  like  dreams. 

There,  where  the  unrestful  night  wind  grieves, 

And  wanders  with  unechoing  tread, 
Through  pathless  shadow,  —  where  the  leaves 

Of  the  dead  year  lie  chill  and  dead,  — 

Is  builded  many  an  antique  hall, 

And  cloister  roofed  with  marble  bars, 

With  living  cressets  on  the  wall  — 

The  glow-worm's  torch,  the  fire-fly's  stars,  — 

Within  whose  shut  doors  dwell  alone 
Pale,  prisoned  nun  and  hermit  guest, 

That  utter  neither  Avail  nor  moan, 
But  ever  keep  a  breathless  rest. 


412  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   INDIANA. 


An   Ode  to   Sleep. 

NEWTON   A.    TRUEBLOOD. 

O  SLEEP !  thou  blessed  friend  to  man, 
For  which  sad  hearts  so  often  pray, 
Continue  human  life  to  scan, 

And  make  the  night  of  sorrow  day. 

The  sleep  that  falls  on  baby's  face 
When  laid  upon  its  mother's  breast, 

Locked  safe  within  her  fond  embrace, 
A  picture  seems  of  perfect  rest. 

The  sleep  that  closes  childhood's  eyes, 
And  makes  the  dimpled  cheeks  more  fair, 

Oft  ends  in  kisses  of  surprise 
On  rosy  lips  and  curling  hair. 

The  sleep  that  blesses  maiden  coy, 
When  love  dawns  on  her  tender  heart, 

Brings  dreams  of  bliss  without  alloy,  — 
Two  wedded  souls  no  more  to  part. 

The  sleep  that  covers  manhood's  brow, 
Gives  strength  unto  his  stalwart  form, 

Maintains  his  step  behind  the  plow, 
Or  keeps  his  anvil  bright  and  warm. 


AN   ODE  TO   SLEEP.  413 

The  sleep  that  rests  on  aged  hands, 

And  heads  bowed  down  with  years  of  care, 

Brings  scenes  to  view  of  happy  lands, 
Where  clouds  no  more  obscure  the  air. 

The  sleep  of  death,  that  comes  to  all, 
Which  God  Himself  has  kindly  given, 

To  many  proves  a  welcome  call, 

And  ends,  we  fondly  hope,  in  heaven. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTES. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTES. 

Albert  Charlton  Andrews  was  born  at  Connersville,  Indiana, 
February  i,  1878.  His  mother,  Mrs.  Marie  Louise  Andrews,  for 
many  years  known  as  one  of  the  brightest  women  in  the  West, 
superintended  his  early  schooling  at  the  Indianapolis  Classical  School 
until  her  death.  His  education  was  continued  in  private  schools 
until  he  entered  De  Pauw  University,  where  he  received  the  degree 
of  Bachelor  of  Philosophy  in  1898.  Mr.  Andrews  has  contributed 
both  prose  and  verse  to  the  periodicals  of  this  country.  In  Novem- 
ber, 1898,  he  went  to  Paris  to  study  the  French  language,  and  is 
well  known  in  Latin  Quarter  for  readings  of  his  own  works  and  verse 
translations. 

Mrs.  Marie  Louise  Andrews  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Benjamin  and 
Mrs.  Louise  A.  Newland.  She  was  born  at  Bedford,  Indiana,  October 
31,  1849,  and  was  educated  at  "  St.  Mary's  of  the  Woods"  and  "The 
Hungerford  Institute  "  of  Adams,  New  York.  She  was  married  to 
Albert  M.  Andrews  of  Connersville,  Indiana,  in  May,  1875.  She  was 
one  of  the  founders  of  the  Western  Association  of  Writers,  and  for 
three  years  its  secretary,  and  made  for  herself  many  friends  among 
literary  and  semi-literary  people.  Though  she  wrote  much  excellent 
prose  and  verse,  but  little  of  her  work  has  been  preserved.  She 
died  February  7,  1891,  leaving  one  son,  Albert  Charlton  Andrews, 
to  inherit  her  genius. 

Mrs.  Albion  Fellows  Bacon.     (See  Mrs.  Annie  Fellows  Johnston, 

p.  438.) 

Mrs.  Rebecca  G.  Ball,  wife  of  Cyrus  Ball,  of  La  Fayette.  Indiana,  was 
born  in  Philadelphia,  but  has  been  a  resident  of  Indiana  since  1838. 
She  has  written  a  number  of  pleasant  poems  for  the  newspapers 
of  her  city,  and  other  publications. 

Granville  Mellen  Ballard  was  born  at  Westport,  Oldham  County, 
Kentucky,  March  30,  1833.     He  enjoyed  excellent  opportunities  for 

417 


41 8  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

education  in  his  boyhood,  and  was  graduated  from  the  scientific 
department  of  the  Indiana  Asbury  (now  De  Pauw)  University  in 
1 85 1.  He  was  for  a  number  of  years  a  teacher  in  the  State  Asylum 
for  the  Deaf  and  Dumb  at  Indianapolis. 

Mr.  Ballard  was,  in  his  earlier  years,  a  frequent  contributor  of 
verse  to  periodicals,  and  also  won  quite  a  reputation  as  the  author  of 
popular  songs,  some  of  which  still  retain  their  hold  upon  the  public. 
His  contributions  of  late  years  have  been  fewer  in  number,  but 
richer  in  thought  and  expression.  One  of  his  longer  poems,  "  The 
Ballad  of  Gnarlwood  Tree,"  has,  for  the  scene  of  its  story  of  abo- 
riginal love,  the  wild  forests  that  flourished  where  Indianapolis  now 
stands,  and  will  always  remain  a  valued  contribution  to  Indiana's 
early  history  and  song. 

Mrs.  M.  E.  Banta,  daughter  of  James  and  Elizabeth  Riddle,  was 
born  near  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  March  27,  1834.  In  1852  she  married, 
in  Covington,  Kentucky,  a  young  Mississippian,  J.  J.  Perrin,  who 
died  in  1853.  In  1856  she  was  again  married  to  D.  D.  Banta,  who 
afterward  became  a  noted  lawyer  and  jurist  of  Johnson  County,  and, 
later,  dean  of  the  Law  School  of  Indiana  University. 

Mrs.  Banta  has  written  much  excellent  verse.  A  volume  of  her 
poems,  "  Songs  of  Home,"  the  only  collection  of  her  literary  work, 
was  published  by  her  eldest  son. 

Mrs.  Margaret  Holmes  Bates  was  born  in  Fremont,  Ohio,  October 
6,  1844,  and  removed  thence  to  Rochester,  Indiana,  in  1858,  where 
she  completed  her  school  education,  and,  early  in  life,  exhibited  those 
powers  which  have  led  to  her  literary  successes. 

She  was  married  to  Charles  Austin  Bates,  of  Indianapolis,  in  1865, 
and  for  twenty-five  years  made  that  city  her  home.  Most  of  her 
poems  and  her  first  successful  romances,  "Manitou,"  and  "The 
Chamber  over  the  Gate,"  were  written  there. 

Mrs.  Bates,  though  possessed  of  fine  poetic  gifts,  does  not  depend 
upon  inspiration  alone,  but  unites  with  keen,  spiritual  insight  the 
faculty  of  painstaking  and  careful  construction,  so  that  her  poems 
are  finished  and  cultured  productions.  Her  present  home  is  in  New 
York  City,  where  she  is  engaged  in  literary  work.  She  has  recently 
published  some  novels  that  have  attracted  much  attention. 

Mrs.  Bessie  Johnson  Bellman  is  a  native  of  Indiana,  and  her  girl- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  419 

hood  days  were  spent  in  La  Fayette.  Since  her  marriage  she  has 
always  lived  a  little  apart  from  the  busy  world. 

Howard,  Kansas,  is  now  her  home,  yet  she  ever  recalls  with 
pleasure  her  native  state,  and,  writing  to  a  home  friend,  says  :  "  Each 
of  the  seasons  has  its  especial  charm,  indescribably  dear  and  tender. 
What  pictures  are  called  up  before  the  true  Hoosier  mind  by  reading 
'  When  the  frost  is  on  the  pumpkin,  and  the  fodder's  in  the  shock,' 
and  '  How  fair  the  moonlight  sits  upon  the  Wabash.' " 

Judge  Horace  P.  Biddle  was  born  at  Lancaster,  Ohio,  March  24, 
181 1.  He  received  a  common  school  education,  to  which  he  added 
a  knowledge  of  Latin,  French,  and  German.  He  studied  law  and 
began  the  practice  at  Logansport,  Indiana,  in  1839.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  convention  that  framed  the  present  constitution  of 
Indiana,  and  served  long  and  faithfully  as  judge  of  the  Circuit  Court 
of  Logansport  Circuit  and  also  upon  the  supreme  bench  of  the  state. 
He  was  an  incessant  worker  in  literature,  and  published  a  large 
number  of  books,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  His  poetry  is  char- 
acterized by  simplicity,  and  is  remembered  for  its  many  pleasing  and 
pungent  quatrains.     He  died  in  May,  1900,  in  his  ninetieth  year. 

G.  Henri  Bogart  was  born  in  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  October  26,  1857. 
He  attended  school  at  Mt.  Airy,  near  College  Hill,  Ohio,  and  began 
teaching  in  western  Indiana  in  1873.  He  taught  twenty  years, 
always  working  in  other  lines  during  vacation.  He  has  done  con- 
siderable newspaper  work  and  some  lecturing. 

Sarah  T.  (Barritt)  Bolton  was  born  at  Newport,  Kentucky,  in  the 
year  1820.  Her  family  removed,  while  she  was  yet  small,  to  Madi- 
son, Indiana.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  she  began  to  contribute  to  the 
local  paper,  which  led  to  an  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Bolton,  the 
editor,  resulting  in  their  marriage.  Mr.  Bolton's  property  was 
swept  away  by  the  financial  panic  of  1 837-1 838,  and  his  girl  wife. 
for  the  time,  laid  aside  her  pen,  and  assisted  her  husband  in  the 
management  of  a  tavern  on  the  old  National  road,  just  west  of 
Indianapolis,  until  better  days  again  dawned  for  them. 

When  the  old  State  House  was  completed,  Mr.  Bolton  was 
appointed  custodian,  and  Mrs.  Bolton  wrote  her  famous  song, 
"  Paddle  Your  Own  Canoe,"  while  sewing  and  fitting  the  first  car- 
pets to  the  floors.     After  1845  she  found  ample  leisure  for  song,  and 


420  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES. 

for  more  than  thirty  years  was  the  most  famous  of  Indiana's  poets. 
Popular  and  beloved  throughout  her  adopted  state,  her  life  was  of 
great  usefulness.  She  died  at  her  much  beloved  home  in  Indian- 
apolis, August  5,  1893. 

Allan  S.  Botsford  was  born  in  Greenfield,  Indiana,  the  town  of 
Harris  and  Riley,  and  his  poetry  does  credit  to  his  childhood's 
home.  He  is  a  newspaper  illustrator,  and  has  followed  his  art 
in  Indianapolis,  San  Francisco,  and  other  cities.  He  has  genius 
of  a  high  order,  and  his  poetry  has  found  favor  with  the  best  maga- 
zines and  newspapers  of  the  country. 

Miss  Ethel  Bowman  was  born  in  Converse,  Indiana,  September, 
1879.  In  ^86  she  removed  to  Marion,  where  she  received  her  edu- 
cation, graduating  from  the  Marion  High  School  with  honors. 
Miss  Bowman  has  contributed  much  in  verse  to  the  Indianapolis 
Journal  and  local  papers.  Her  work  shows  poetical  genius,  and 
gives  promise  of  better  things. 

Mrs.  Minnie  Thomas  Boyce  has  exhibited  a  rare  talent  for  the 
delineation  of  child  character,  and  her  short  stories  of  child  life, 
which  have  mostly  appeared  in  the  Chicago  papers,  have  attracted 
much  favorable  attention.  She  is  peculiarly  happy  in  her  rendition 
of  her  own  work  along  similar  lines  with  Mr.  Riley  and  Mr. 
Pfrimmer.  She  has  written  but  little  verse,  most  of  it  being 
devoted  to  child  life.  Since  the  death  of  her  husband,  two  years 
ago,  Mrs.  Boyce  has  taken  a  course  in  English  literature  at  the 
State  University,  and  is  constantly  adding  to  her  literary  equip- 
ments. 

Mrs.  L.  V.  Boyd.     (See  Louise  Esther  Vickroy,  p.  461). 

Robert  H.  Brewington  was  born  in  Dearborn  County,  November 
8,  1832.  He  was  educated  in  the  common  schools  and  at  Moore's 
Hill  College,  graduating  from  the  latter  with  high  honors  in  1859. 
He  then  taught  for  a  number  of  years :  four  years  at  Moore's  Hill 
College,  during  one  of  which  he  served  as  acting  president. 
Following  this  he  was  superintendent  of  public  schools  :  two  years 
at  Greensburgh,  Indiana,  and  four  years  at  Vevay,  Indiana.  He 
studied  for  the  ministry,  and  was  licensed  to  preach  by  the  Metho- 
dist Episcopal  Church  in  i860.  He  served  for  a  time  in  the  Union 
army  as  a  lieutenant  of  an  infantry  company. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  42 1 

Mr.  Brewington  also  served  most  acceptably  as  chaplain  of  the 
Soldiers  and  Sailors  Orphans  Home,  near  Knightstown,  Indiana, 
from  1873  to  1879.  He  was  afterward  associate  editor  of  the 
Knightstown  Banner  for  some  time,  and  then  for  two  years  editor 
and  owner  of  the  Republican,  at  Fresno,  California. 

Dr.  Brewington  has  contributed  much  both  in  verse  and  prose  to 
newspapers,  magazines,  and  church  publications  ;  but  has,  up  to  this 
time,  made  no  collection  of  his  poems  or  other  writings. 

Rev.  Albert  Fletcher  Bridges  was  born  near  Poland,  Indiana, 
August  22,  1853.  In  1874  he  was  graduated  from  De  Pauw  Univer- 
sity, and  in  September  of  the  same  year  entered  the  itinerant  ministry 
of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  He  retired  from  the  ministry 
in  1 88 1,  and  for  ten  years  edited  the  Brazil  (Indiana)  Register.  His 
present  home  is  Colorado  Springs,  Colorado.  His  poems  are  seri- 
ous and  on  themes  of  general  and  permanent  interest.  He  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  sermons,  lectures,  and  local  history  in  1889,  and 
'•Poems"  in  1898.     A  second  edition  of  his  poems   is  now  in  press. 

Mrs.  Mattie  Dyer  Britts  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  Sidney 
Dyer,  whose  songs  were  once  very  popular  throughout  the  central 
West.  She  has  spent  most  of  her  married  life  in  Crawfordsville, 
Indiana.  She  has  not  been  a  voluminous  writer  of  verse,  but  her 
poems  are  well-wrought  and  wholesome. 

Mrs.  Maria  Sears  Brooks  was  born  in  Springfield,  Massachusetts, 
and  received  her  education  in  her  native  city.  At  the  age  of  nine- 
teen she  married  and  came  west.  When  the  Civil  War  began,  she 
was  living  in  Missouri,  and  her  earliest  literary  efforts  were  concern- 
ing the  struggle  which  was  then  of  supreme  moment  in  Missouri. 

In  1862  she  removed  to  Madison,  Indiana,  and  for  many  years 
continued  to  contribute  poems,  short  stories,  and  essays  to  news- 
papers and  magazines.  In  1888  she  published  a  dainty  holiday 
book  which  had  a  large  sale.  She  was  elected  vice-president  of 
the  Western  Association  of  Writers  in  1889,  and  in  1890  was  chosen 
secretary  of  that  body.     She  died  in  1893. 

Mrs.  Alice  Williams  Brotherton  was  born  and  reared  in  Cambridge 
City,  Indiana,  and  made  much  of  her  literary  reputation  while  writ- 
ing over  her  maiden  name,  Alice  Williams ;  but  since  her  marriage 
she  has  lived  in  the  city  of  Cincinnati. 


422  BIOGRAHIICAL  NOTES. 

On  her  father's  side  she  is  descended  from  the  noted  Williams 
family  that  furnished  so  many  able  ministers  and  devoted  members 
to  the  Society  of  Friends,  which  was  such  a  powerful  factor  in  the 
establishment  of  the  early  settlements  of  eastern  Indiana.  On  her 
mothers  side  she  was  a  Johnson,  another  Indiana  family  that  has 
furnished  a  number  of  notable  people  to  the  professions  of  medi- 
cine, law,  and  literature.  None  of  them  have  been  more  justly 
honored  than  Mrs.  Brotherton  herself.  Among  her  near  relatives 
are  Robert  Underwood  Johnson,  associate  editor  of  the  Cefitury, 
and  Henry  U.  Johnson,  a  lawyer  and  ex-member  of  Congress,  who 
has  considerable  reputation  as  a  public  speaker. 

Mrs.  Brotherton's  husband  is  an  honored  business  man  of  Cin- 
cinnati, where  the  family  lives  in  a  pleasant  home  on  Walnut  Hill. 

Those  who  have  studied  her  poetry  know  that  it  is  of  no  ordinary 
quality.  Few  American  women  have  written  better  verse  or  that 
which  is  nobler  in  purpose  or  clearer  in  expression.  "  The  Sailing 
of  King  Olaf"  is  probably  the  most  popular  of  her  volumes  of 
poetry,  but  much  of  her  other  work  reaches  the  same  high  mark 
of  excellence. 

She  is  a  close  student  and  toiler  in  the  literary  field,  and  spends 
much  of  her  time  in  teaching  literature  to  classes  and  in  lecturing 
upon  Shakespeare  and  other  masters  of  literature.  She  is  also  a 
frequent  contributor  to  the  Century  and  other  periodicals. 

Jerome  C.  Burnett  was  borr,  in  New  Jersey,  May  15,  1833.  During 
his  youth  his  parents  moved  to  Terra  Haute,  Indiana.  He  was  a 
self-educated  man,  having  had  a  merely  desultory  schooling.  He 
was  a  newspaper  correspondent  at  an  early  age,  and  received  a  valu- 
able training  from  this  class  of  work.  He  removed  to  Indianapolis, 
and  during  his  residence  there  held  many  positions  of  honor,  and  was 
the  trusted  assistant  of  Governor  Morton  during  the  war.  Besides 
being  a  poet  of  rare  gifts  and  attainments,  Mr.  Burnett  wrote  many 
letters  of  travel  and  description,  and  several  lectures.  His  best-known 
lecture  is  the  '•  Life  and  Character  of  Oliver  P.  Morton."  Mr. 
Burnett  died  in  Washington  City  in  May,  1891. 

Clarence  A.  Buskirk  was  born  November  8,  1842,  at  the  village  of 
Friendship,  Alleghany  County,  New  York,  where  he  spent  his  youth 
and  received  his  early  education.     Having  decided  to  prepare  him- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  423 

self  for  the  practice  of  law,  he  pursued  a  course  in  the  Law  School  at 
Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  and  was  admitted  to  the  practice  of  law  in 
Kalamazoo,  Michigan,  in  1865.  He  removed  to  Princeton,  Indiana, 
in  1866,  where  he  still  resides. 

Mr.  Buskirk  served  two  terms,  from  1874  to  1878,  as  attorney 
general,  the  first  term  under  Governor  Hendricks,  and  the  last  term 
under  Governor  Williams.  He  also  served  one  term,  1872-1873, 
in  the  Indiana  legislature. 

Miss  Kate  M.  Caplinger  of  Madison  is  one  of  Indiana's  successful 
and  industrious  teachers,  who  finds  time  to  do  some  very  merito- 
rious literary  work.  Her  poems,  which  are  always  hopeful  and 
healthy  in  tone,  are  usually  devoted  to  such  themes  as  her  natural 
surroundings  suggest. 

Mrs.  Emma  N.  Carleton  says  of  herself,  "My  maiden  name  was 
Emma  Shields  Nunemacher,  and  my  grandfather,  Clement  Shields, 
wrote  verse  in  his  wooing  days,  so  the  tendency  to  rhyme  seems, 
in  my  case,  an  inherited  unavoidability."  Mrs.  Carleton's  rare  sense 
of  humor  has  made  her  a  favorite  with  such  papers  as  the  Detroit 
Free  Press,  Life,  Puck,  Judge,  etc.,  but  she  is  more  favorably  known 
as  the  author  of  short,  crisp  poems,  each  of  which  is  a  gem.  She 
was  born  in  New  Albany  in  1850.  In  1876  she  was  married  to 
Phillip  J.  Carleton,  who  died  in  Indianapolis  in  1877.  After  a  resi- 
dence of  twelve  years  in  Indianapolis  Mrs.  Carleton  returned,  in 
1888,  to  New  Albany,  which  city  continues  to  be  her  home. 

Mrs.  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood,  the  author  of  "The  Story  of 
Dollard, "  "The  White  Islander,"  "Lady  of  St.  John,"  "Story  of 
Tonty,"  "Old  Kaskaskia  Days,"  etc.,  was  born  at  Luray,  Ohio, 
but  much  of  her  active  life  has  been  spent  in  Indiana,  where  she 
built  and  furnished  a  charming  home  in  the  city  of  Indianapolis, 
and  where  many  of  her  stories  and  poems  were  written.  Her 
parents  died  when  she  was  quite  small,  and  left  her  to  struggle  for 
herself.  With  the  aid  of  relatives  and  friends  she  secured  a  good 
education  and  entered  active  life  as  a  teacher.  She  soon  began  to 
write  for  the  press,  over  her  maiden  name,  Mary  Hartwell,  to  which 
signature,  after  her  marriage  to  Mr.  Steele  Catherwood,  she  added 
her  husband's  name.  The  genius  displayed  in  her  romance  and 
poetry  attracted  the  attention  of  critics  early  in  her  career,  and  her 


424  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

success  has  been  almost  phenomenal.     She  is  still  young,  and  much 
is  yet  to  be  hoped  for  from  her  graceful  pen. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cathervvood  are  at  present  living  at  Hoopeston,  Illi- 
nois, but  Mrs.  Catherwood  is  still  loyal  to  the  Hoosier  State,  the 
State  of  her  adoption.  They  have  one  child,  a  young  lady  of  four- 
teen or  fifteen  years.  So  much  of  Mrs.  Catherwood's  powers  have 
found  exercise  in  the  more  profitable  field  of  historical  romance,  that 
she  modestly  disclaims  being  a  poet,  —  a  disclaimer  with  which 
neither  her  friends  nor  the  public  will  agree. 

Mrs.  Emily  Thornton  Charles  was  born  in  La  Fayette,  Indiana, 
March  21,  1845.  She  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  Indian- 
apolis, and  became  a  teacher,  herself,  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  After 
the  death  of  her  husband,  which  occurred  in  1874,  she  began  to 
write  for  a  livelihood,  doing  reportorial  and  editorial  work  for  Indian- 
apolis papers.  She  was  managing  editor  of  the  Washington  (D.C.) 
World  and  established  the  National  Veteran.  She  published  two 
volumes  of  poems,  each  of  which  commanded  a  large  sale :  "  Haw- 
thorn Blossoms,"  1876,  and  "  Lyrical  Poems,"  1886.  Mrs.  Charles 
died  in  Washington  City,  where  the  latter  part  of  her  half  century  of 
life  was  spent. 

Miss  Mary  Louisa  Chitwood  was,  next  to  Sarah  T.  Bolton,  the 
most  widely  known  of  the  Indiana  poets  of  her  time,  and  her  work 
was  eagerly  sought  for  by  the  editors  of  newspapers  and  magazines. 
In  the  last  two  years  of  her  life  her  improvement  in  the  style,  scope, 
and  finish  of  her  poetical  compositions  was  marked  and  rapid.  She 
was  also  the  author  of  much  timely  and  graceful  prose.  She  died 
in  1856,  at  the  little  village  of  Mt.  Carmel,  Indiana,  which  had  been 
her  life-long  home,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  years.  A  collection 
of  her  poems  was  published  in  1857,  under  the  able  editorship  of  the 
late  George  D.  Prentiss,  of  the  Louisville  (Kentucky)  Journal,  to 
which  Miss  Chitwood  had  been  a  favored  contributor. 

Noah  J.  Clodfelter  has  been,  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life, 
a  remarkably  active  and,  in  the  main,  successful  business  man 
and  promoter  of  public  improvements,  as  well  as  an  author.  In 
1886  he  published,  through  the  publishing  house  of  Hirst  and 
Company,  New  York,  a  volume  of  near  three  hundred  pages  of 
his  verse.     He  gave  the  collection  the  title  of  "Early  Vanities." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  425 

It  is  said  to  have  had  a  very  large  sale.     He  is  also  the  author  ot 
other  books. 

Jethro  Crooke  Culmer  was  born  in  March,  1855.  He  has  been 
engaged  in  railroad  work  in  various  departments  since  sixteen  years 
old,  and  is  at  present  station  agent  for  the  Pennsylvania  Company  at 
Spencer,  Indiana.  In  the  midst  of  an  active  and  honorable  business 
life,  he  has  found  time  and  inclination  to  improve  his  rare  natural 
endowments.  His  poetry  is  characterized  by  its  careful  finish, 
and  his  sonnets  have  attracted  the  attention  of  critics  as  excellent 
examples  of  that  form  of  versification. 

Hon.  Will  Cumback  was  born  in  Franklin  County,  Indiana,  March 
24,  1829.  He  was  reared  upon  a  farm,  and  enjoyed  such  opportuni- 
ties for  education  as  the  early  country  schools  afforded.  He  studied 
law,  and  being  a  natural  orator,  soon  acquired  a  reputation  as  a 
public  speaker.  Mr.  Cumback  has  held  many  offices  of  responsi- 
bility and  trust,  and  has  served  in  all  with  honor  and  distinction. 
He  was  elected  to  Congress  when  barely  twenty-five,  and  since  that 
time  has  been  Presidential  Elector,  Paymaster  of  the  Army,  State 
Senator,  Lieutenant-Governor,  and  Collector  of  Internal  Revenues. 
During  all  these  years  of  public  service  Mr.  Cumback  kept  his  lit- 
erary tastes  and  capabilities  alive  and  active,  delivering  lectures  and 
writing  for  the  press.  He  has  not  written  largely  in  poetry,  but  his 
few  poems  are  of  such  a  hopeful  nature  that  they  leave  the  reader 
happier  for  having  read  them. 

George  W.  Cutter  was  probably  born  in  Kentucky  about  the 
beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century.  He  was  a  lawyer  by  pro- 
fession, and  a  politician,  orator,  poet,  and  soldier,  of  choice.  During 
his  productive  years  he  was  a  citizen  of  Indiana  and  well  known  for 
his  enthusiasm  in  behalf  of  whatever  cause  he  espoused.  He  was 
perhaps,  in  his  day,  the  state's  most  distinguished  literary  man,  his 
stirring  poems  having  enjoyed  a  great  vogue.  He  was  twice  mar- 
ried, his  first  wife  having  been  Mrs.  Alexander  Drake,  the  actress. 
He  was  a  captain  during  the  Mexican  War,  and,  it  is  said,  wrote  his 
long  poem,  "  Buena  Vista,"  on  the  battle  field.  His  best  poems  are 
"The  Song  of  Steam"  and  "Song  of  Lightning,"  but  "E  Pluribus 
Unum  "  appeals  more  effectively  to  the  average  American  heart.  He 
published  his  poems,  in  Philadelphia,  in  1857,  under  the  title  of 


426  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

"Poems,  National  and  Patriotic."  His  last  years  were  spent  in 
Washington,  D.C.,  where  his  days  were  sadly  clouded  by  disease 
and  the  loss  of  his  mental  balance.  The  exact  date  of  his  death, 
like  that  of  his  birth,  is  unknown  to  us. 

Mrs.  Ida  May  Davis  is  a  native  of  Indiana,  having  lived  in  Terre 
Haute  and  Huntington.  She  devoted  her  early  life  to  teaching,  for 
which  profession  she  showed  a  happy  preference.  She  was  for  a 
number  of  years  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Education  in  Terre 
Haute  and,  in  1891  was  elected  secretary  of  the  Western  Association 
of  Writers,  a  position  which  she  held  for  six  years.  Her  literary 
work  has  been  in  the  line  of  educational  papers,  book  reviews, 
sketches,  and  poems.  But  her  poetry  is  her  best  work  and  that 
which  will  longest  keep  her  name  green. 

Mrs.  Hannah  E.  (Brown)  Davis  was  born  near  Richmond,  Indiana, 
November  5,  1841,  and  died  in  Grand  Forks,  North  Dakota,  March 
24,  1898.  She  was  educated  in  the  country  schools  and  at  Earlham 
College.  In  September,  1862,  she  was  married  to  Clarkson  Davis, 
one  of  the  foremost  educators  in  the  state,  who  assumed  control  of 
the  Spiceland  Academy  in  1863.  Here  Mrs.  Davis  began  her  career 
as  a  teacher,  her  connection  with  the  academy  continuing  twenty- 
eight  years.  After  the  death  of  her  husband,  which  occurred  in 
1883,  she  spent  much  time  in  Europe,  studying  art  and  the  lan- 
guages. She  was  very  much  attached  to  the  kindred  arts,  painting 
and  poetry.  She  was  passionately  devoted  to  nature  and  nature 
studies  and  investigations,  as  her  poetry  amply  proves. 

Richard  Lew  Dawson  was  born  upon  a  farm  in  Franklin  County, 
Indiana,  which  he  pictured  in  dialect  verse  in  the  Century  Magazine 
a  few  years  ago  as  "  The  Old  Honeysuckle  Farm."  He  received  a 
common  school  education,  but  was  otherwise  self-educated.  He 
early  developed  a  love  for  literature  and  literary  pursuits,  and  while 
yet  a  very  young  man  won  quite  a  reputation  as  a  dialectician. 
He  also  gave  entertainments  at  which  he  rendered  his  own  poetry. 
He  was  one  among  the  four  or  five  persons  who  called  the  Western 
Association  of  Writers  into  existence,  and  has  always  maintained 
that  he  first  suggested  it ;  and  he  was  for  a  number  of  years  an 
active  member.  He  has  been  a  contributor  of  dialect  verse  to  the 
Century,  his  masterpiece  in  that  line,  "  The  Old  Settler's  Meetun," 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  427 

having  appeared  in  that  magazine,  as  also  did  other  poems  of  similar 
character.  During  the  palmy  days  of  the  Chicago  Current  Mr. 
Dawson  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  its  pages.  He  also  wrote 
for  the  Saturday  Herald,  the  Indianapolis  Journal,  etc.  Mr.  Daw- 
son is  living  in  the  state  of  New  York.  His  poetry,  outside  of  his 
dialect  verse,  is  characterized  by  sweetness  and  beauty,  and  in  it  he 
has  done  his  best  work. 

Charles  Dennis  was  born  at  Lawrenceburg,  Indiana,  September  4, 
1844.  He  has  lived  in  Indianapolis  since  1852.  He  was  educated 
in  the  grade  schools.  He  learned  the  drug  business,  but  has  been 
a  newspaper  man  since  1875.  He  was  a  partner  of  George  C.  Hard- 
ing in  the  Saturday  Review  of  Indianapolis,  Mr.  Harding's  last 
newspaper  venture.  He  has  been  at  various  times  a  reporter  on  the 
News  and  Journal,  and  is  now  shorthand  reporter  and  market  editor 
on  the  News.     Mr.  Dennis  is  a  man  of  family  and  happy  home  ties. 

Colonel  William  T.  Dennis  resides  at  Richmond,  Indiana,  which 
city  has  been  his  home  for  fifty  years.  He  was  born  in  Cayuga 
County,  New  York,  June  17,'  1816,  and  is  now  eighty-four  years  of 
age.  His  life  has  been  one  of  varied  activities  and  great  value  to 
his  state  and  country.  He  was  the  originator,  and  for  many  years 
the  secretary,  of  the  State  Board  of  Agriculture,  and  for  a  series  of 
years  chief  clerk  in  the  Agricultural  Department  at  Washington. 
During  the  Civil  War  he  was  military  agent  of  the  state  at  the 
national  capital,  rendering  valuable  service  in  providing  for  sick 
and  wounded  soldiers.  His  last  effort  as  a  publisher  was  in  the 
publication  of  Fish  and  Game  Talks,  a  sprightly  periodical  in  the 
interest  of  our  friends  of  the  streams  and  woods. 

John  Brown  Dillon  was  a  native  of  Brooks  County,  Virginia,  but 
was  taken  to  Belmont  County  while  yet  an  infant  by  his  parents. 
There  he  received  such  education  as  the  country  schools  of  the 
time  afforded. 

He  was  only  nine  years  old  when  his  father  died ;  then  he  had 
to  make  his  own  living.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  years  he  went  to 
Cincinnati,  having  previously  learned  the  printer's  trade,  with  no 
fortune  but  his  printer's  rule,  honesty  of  purpose  and  determination. 
His  masterpiece,  ''The  Burial  of  the  Beautiful,"  was  written  for  the 
Cincinnati  Gazette  in  1S26. 


428  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

Mr.  Dillon  removed  to  Indiana  in  1834,  where  he  was  of  untold 
service  to  the  state  in  the  preservation  of  its  early  history.  In  1842 
he  published  his  first  volume  of  "  Historical  Notes,"  which  was  some 
years  later  followed  by  his  "History  of  Indiana,"  which  is,  and 
probably  always  will  be,  the  standard  history  of  the  territorial 
period  and  organization  of  the  state  government. 

In  1845  he  was  elected  state  librarian,  and  there  again  his 
services  were  of  inestimable  value  to  the  new  state.  He  also  did 
another  great  work  for  the  state  as  secretary  of  the  State  Historical 
Society.     He  died  at  Indianapolis  full  of  years  and  honors. 

Mrs.  May  Winters  Donnan  of  Indianapolis  is  the  author  of  many 
excellent  poems  and  children's  stories,  and  is  a  literary  critic  of  rec- 
ognized ability.  Her  literary  work  has  appeared  in  various  maga- 
zines, the  Indianapolis  Journal  and  Indianapolis  Press,  and  has 
occasioned  much  favorable  comment. 

Mrs.  Donnan  is  a  careful  student,  and  for  many  years  has  conducted 
private  classes  in  English  literature  and  history  at  her  home,  and 
also  gives  readings  and  lectures  to  literary  clubs  throughout  the  state. 
Mrs.  Amanda  L.  Ruter  Dufour  was  the  daughter  of  Calvin  W.  and 
Harriet  (Hass)  Ruter,  and  was  born  at  Jeffersonville,  Indiana,  in 
the  year  1822.  Her  early  life  was  spent  on  a  farm  near  Lexington. 
When  she  was  eight  years  old  her  father  removed  his  family  to  New 
Albany,  and  here  she  spent  her  girlhood,  received  her  education, 
and  was  married  to  Oliver  Dufour.  They  made  their  home  for 
several  years  in  Indiana,  where  Mr.  Dufour  served  as  a  member  of 
the  state  legislature  in  1853,  and  was  also  a  prominent  member  of 
the  Independent  Order  of  Odd  Fellows.  During  Mr.  Pierce's  ad- 
ministration he  received  an  appointment  in  one  of  the  government 
offices  at  Washington.  Mrs.  Dufour  died  at  her  home  in  Washing- 
ton, June  29,  1899,  lier  husband  having  preceded  her  some  years. 
She  was  a  prolific  writer  of  verse. 

Mrs.  Julia  L.  Dumont,  the  first  Indiana  poet  whose  work  has  been 
preserved,  was  the  daughter  of  Ebenezer  and  Martha  D.  Corey,  of 
Rhode  Island.  She  was  born  in  1794,  and  her  early  life  was  spent 
in  Greenfield,  New  York.  In  1812  she  was  married  to  John 
Dumont,  and  removed  with  him  to  Vevay,  Indiana  Territory. 
There,  at  the  little  village  in  the  wilderness,  she  entered  upon  that 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES.  429 

heroic  struggle  in  behalf  of  education  and  culture  that  has  wedded 
her  name  to  the  history  of  the  educational  movement  in  Indiana. 
Mrs.  Dumont  wrote  with  equal  felicity  in  prose  and  verse,  and 
Eastern  publishers  were  always  ready  to  pay  her  liberally  for  her 
productions. 

John  Gibson  Dunn  was  born  in  Lawrenceburg,  Indiana,  in  1826. 
He  was  born  to  good  opportunities  as  well  as  with  rare  intellectual 
gifts.  He  graduated  from  Hanover  College,  studied  medicine,  and 
was  surgeon  of  the  Third  Regiment  of  Indiana  Volunteers  during 
the  Mexican  War.  He  was  both  a  painter  and  a  poet,  and  seemed 
to  possess  the  natural  qualifications  for  success  in  either  art ;  but  he 
is  represented  as  having  been  careless  of  his  work,  both  in  thorough- 
ness of  execution  and  in  its  preservation  after  it  was  completed.  He 
died  in  New  Orleans  in  1858,  at  the  age  of  thirty-two  years. 

Sidney  Dyer  was  for  many  years  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist  Church 
in  Indianapolis,  Indiana,  where  he  established  a  reputation  for 
scholarly  zeal  and  high  religious  devotion. 

His  poetry  is  characterized  by  its  musical  quality,  and  his  genius 
seemed  to  be  at  its  best  when  expressing  the  domestic  sentiments 
and  emotions.  He  wrote  much  for  music,  and  usually  copyrighted 
his  songs  before  even  permitting  the  newspapers  to  publish  them. 
His  published  volumes  of  poetry  are  "  Voices  of  Nature  and  Thoughts 
in  Rhyme,"  1849,  and  an  "  Olio  of  Love  and  Song,"  1855. 

Elijah  Evan  Edwards  was  born  January  26,  1831,  in  Delaware, 
Ohio.  He  removed  to  Indiana  in  1836.  He  was  graduated  from 
Asbury  University  —  of  which  he  was  poet-laureate  —  in  1853,  and 
afterward  received  from  that  institution  the  degree  of  Ph.D.  Hu  was 
for  six  years  professor  of  Latin  in  Brookville  College,  and  was  for  a 
time  president  of  a  college  at  Centerville,  Indiana,  and  principal  of 
the  New  Castle  Seminary.  He  has  since  held  professorships  in 
several  prominent  Western  colleges.  Dr.  Edwards,  in  addition  to 
his  poetical  endowments  and  literary  and  scholarly  attainments,  is 
the  possessor  of  artistic  taste  and  skill  of  a  high  order,  both  as  a 
painter  and  modeler.  His  poetry  has  always  been  accorded  high 
rank  by  the  critics,  and  is  deservedly  popular  with  the  people.  He 
is  at  present  rector  of  an  Episcopal  church  in  North  Carolina. 

Judge   Alfred   Ellison   was    born   in   Charleston,  West  Virginia, 


430  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

February  I,  1854.  His  father  was  an  itinerant  Baptist  minister, 
and  removed  to  Madison  County,  Indiana,  in  i860.  Mr.  Ellison 
studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1884.  He  was  elected 
Judge  in  1890,  and  served  one  term.  He  has  given  much  of  his  time 
to  literature  and  oratory,  and  he  is  known  as  a  popular  lecturer. 
His  home  is  at  Anderson,  Indiana,  where  he  has  an  extensive  law 
practice. 

Henry  W.  Ellsworth  was  a  son  of  Oliver  Ellsworth,  once  a  chief 
justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States.  He  was  born  at 
Windsor,  Connecticut,  in  1814,  and  graduated  from  Yale  College,  in 
1835,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  He  was  appointed  minister  of  the 
United  States  to  Sweden  and  Norway  by  President  James  K.  Polk, 
and  continued  to  serve  his  country  as  such  until  1850.  Some  time 
after  his  return  to  this  country  he  took  up  his  abode  in  Indianapolis, 
which  was  his  home  thereafter.  Several  of  his  poems  appeared  in 
the  once  famous  old  Knickerbocker  Magazine  of  New  York. 

Dr.  Orpheus  Everts  was  born  in  Liberty,  Union  County,  Indiana, 
on  December  18,  1826.  He  was  educated  in  the  schools  of  his 
native  county,  and  had  graduated,  as  a  Doctor  of  Medicine,  by  the 
time  he  was  nineteen  years  of  age.  He  has  practiced  medicine  and 
surgery,  been  an  editor,  and  was  register  of  the  Land  Office  at 
Hudson,  Wisconsin,  under  the  administration  of  President  James 
Buchanan.  His  most  important  public  service,  aside  from  author- 
ship, has  been  as  superintendent  of  the  Indiana  Hospital  for  the 
Insane,  which  he  held  for  many  years,  and,  since,  in  connection  with 
a  private  hospital,  at  Cincinnati,  for  the  cure  of  mental  maladies. 

He  is  an  amateur  painter  as  well  as  an  editor  and  an  author ;  but, 
above  all,  he  is  a  poet  whose  genius  has  been  known  and  recognized 
for  a  half  century.  He  has  published  two  or  more  volumes  of  verse, 
that  have  been  well  received. 

John  Finley  was  born  in  Brownsburg,  Rockingham  County,  Vir- 
ginia, on  the  nth  day  of  January,  1797,  and  died  at  his  home  in 
Richmond,  Indiana,  on  the  23d  day  of  December,  1866.  He  was 
educated  in  his  native  village.  He  came  West  and  located  in  Cin- 
cinnati in  1818.  Soon  afterward  he  came  across  the  country  to 
Indianapolis,  when  it  was  but  a  collection  of  cabins  in  the  woods.  In 
the  year  1828  he  located  in  Richmond,  Indiana,  which  was  his  home 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  43 1 

thenceforward.  Mr.  Finley's  genial  manners,  his  capabilities  for 
business,  and  his  semi-humorous,  semi-pathetic  verse,  devoted  to 
homely  themes,  made  him  very  popular  among  his  neighbors.  He 
was  for  three  years,  1831  to  1834,  editor  of  the  Richmond  Palla- 
dium, three  years  enrolling  clerk  of  the  state  legislature,  repre- 
sented Wayne  County  three  times  in  the  legislature,  was  clerk  of 
the  Wayne  County  Circuit  Court  for  seven  years,  and  mayor  of  the 
city  of  Richmond  fourteen  years,  up  to  his  death  in  1866.  His  last 
wife  survived  him  and  lived  to  be  more  than  ninety  years  old.  His 
famous  "  Hoosier's  Nest "  was  a  part  of  a  New  Year's  address  that 
was  printed  in  the  Palladium  in  1830.  His  "Bachelor's  Hall"  has 
been  often  attributed  to  Tom  Moore,  and  one  editor  went  so  far  as 
to  include  it  in  a  volume  of  Moore's  "  Irish  Melodies." 

Mrs.  Mary  Hockett  Flanner  came  on  her  father's  side  of  North 
Carolina  Quaker  stock,  the  Hockett  family  having  been  one  of 
prominence  in  that  society  in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. On  her  mother's  side  she  is  of  French  descent,  and  it  is 
probably  from  her  mother  that  she  inherits  those  quick  sympathies 
with  innocence  and  beauty  which  give  character  to  her  poems.  She 
began  writing  while  yet  a  child,  but  has  ever  been  too  modest 
and  retiring  to  appreciate  her  own  work  at  its  worth. 

She  was  born  at  Plainfield,  Indiana,  but  educated  at  Muncie, 
where  she  was  graduated  from  the  high  school.  She  was  happily 
married,  in  1886,  to  Frank  Flanner,  of  Indianapolis.  Mrs.  Flanner 
has  thus  far  written  only  for  newspapers  and  magazines,  but  she  has 
already  made  many  literary  friends,  for  the  sweet  ingenuousness  of 
her  verse  finds  echoes  in  many  hearts. 

Miss  Elizabeth  E.  Foulke  is  a  teacher  in  the  public  schools  of 
Richmond,  Indiana,  her  native  town,  where  she  was  reared  and 
educated.  In  addition  to  being  a  successful  teacher  of  young  chil- 
dren, her  love  for  them  has  led  her  to  enter  the  wider  field  of  author- 
ship in  order  to  multiply  her  usefulness,  and,  young  as  she  is,  she 
has  already  published  through  the  firm  of  Silver,  Ikirdett  and  Com- 
pany two  dainty  volumes  of  stories  and  verses  for  children.  These 
have  won  wide  popularity  with  the  teachers  and  managers  of  pri- 
mary schools  and  in  the  families  where  there  are  small  children  to 
train.     It  is  from  these  volumes  that  our  selections  have  mostly 


432  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

been  made,  and  though  given  here  as  representative  of  her  work 
in  the  special  line  of  letters  to  which  she  has,  thus  far,  devoted  her- 
self, they  prove  that  for  the  higher  and  more  careful  work  of  the  poet 
she  is  not  lacking  either  in  natural  or  acquired  gifts. 

She  says  of  herself,  "  I  have  enjoyed  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
and  fields  all  my  life,  and  have  gathered  wild  flowers  in  the  spring 
as  far  back  along  the  years  as  I  can  remember" ;  and  therein  lies  a 
part  of  the  secret  of  her  ability  to  instruct  and  delight  the  children 
with  story  and  rhyme. 

William  Dudley  Foulke  was  born  in  New  York  City,  November 
20,  1848.  He  was  graduated  from  Columbia  College  in  1870,  and 
from  Columbia  Law  School  in  1871.  He  removed  to  Richmond, 
Indiana,  in  1876.  He  was  elected  to  the  state  senate  in  1882,  and 
served  with  honor  and  distinction  in  that  body  ;  but  his  most  impor- 
tant public  services  have  been  rendered  in  the  promotion  of  reforms, 
in  the  civil  service  of  both  the  state  and  the  nation.  Mr.  Foulke 
is  a  forcible  public  speaker,  and  demands  for  his  addresses  in  favor 
of  various  reforms  have  come  from  all  parts  of  the  country.  His 
principal  literary  productions  are  "  Slav  or  Saxon"  and  the  "  Life  of 
Oliver  P.  Morton."     He  has  not  written  extensively  in  verse. 

Willis  Wilfred  Fowler  is  a  young  man  of  Shelbyville,  Indiana,  who 
has  in  the  last  few  years  attracted  much  attention  by  contributions  of 
verse  to  the  newspapers,  and  by  two  or  three  little  collections  or 
dainty  leaflets  of  verse  that  he  has  caused  to  be  printed  for  the 
delight  of  his  friends.  His  verse  is  permeated  by  humor  and  pathos, 
and  gives  promise  of  greater  future  attainment. 

Strickland  W.  Gillilan,  city  editor  of  the  Richmond  (Indiana) 
Daily  Palladium,  is  a  native  of  Jackson  County,  Ohio.  He  was  born 
October  9,  1869,  and  his  boyhood  days  were  spent  on  a  farm.  He 
began  teaching  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  which  profession  he  laid  aside 
for  that  of  journalism.  In  addition  to  his  routine  editorial  work  he 
has  written  much  meritorious  verse,  contributing  to  the  newspapers 
and  magazines.  The  humorous  poem  in  Irish  dialect,  "  Finnigan 
to  Flannigan,"  has  made  his  name  widely  known.  He  is  also  a 
public  reader  of  much  popularity,  rendering  selections  from  his  own 
writings  in  prose  and  verse. 

Jerome  Bonaparte  Girard  is  perhaps  the  only  Indiana  poet  who 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  433 

has  celebrated  the  scene  of  the  defeat  and  massacre  of  Colonel 
Laughery  and  his  party,  on  Laughery 's  Creek,  in  territory  that  is  now 
part  of  Ohio  County,  Indiana.  This  event  occurred  in  the  year  1781, 
and  Dr.  Girard  was  born  upon  the  historic  little  stream,  near  the 
village  of  Hartford,  forty-one  years  later  —  in  1822.  He  graduated 
at  Miami  College,  Oxford,  Ohio,  and  then  at  the  Cincinnati  Medical 
College.  He  was  a  successful  practitioner  up  to  the  war  for  the 
Union,  when  he  was  appointed  surgeon  of  the  Thirty-seventh 
Indiana  Volunteer  Infantry,  served  one  year  in  the  field,  and  then  at 
the  Madison  (Indiana)  Hospital  until  the  close  of  the  war.  He  died 
at  Orlando,  Florida,  October  15,  1886.  His  poem,  "My  Native 
Stream,'1  will  continue  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  Laughery 's  Creek 
until  some  greater  poet  shall  wed  it  to  more  immortal  song. 

Samuel  B.  Gookins,  a  former  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Indi- 
ana, was  born  in  Rupert,  Vermont,  May  30,  1809.  In  1823  he 
removed  to  Indiana  and  settled  on  an  unimproved  prairie  farm,  near 
Terre  Haute.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  years  he  apprenticed  himself 
to  John  W.  Osborn  of  the  Western  Register  of  Terre  Haute,  to  learn 
the  printing  business.  In  1832  he  began  the  study  of  law,  and  two 
years  later  was  admitted  to  practice.  Later,  he  removed  to  Chicago, 
where  he  stood  high  in  his  profession.  During  his  entire  career  he 
was  a  frequent  contributor  of  both  prose  and  verse  to  the  newspapers 
and  magazines  of  the  country,  the  old  Knickerbocker  and  Continental 
magazines  being  in  the  list. 

Jonathan  W.  Gordon  was  born  in  Washington  County,  Pennsyl- 
vania, in  1820,  and  removed  to  Indiana  with  his  parents  in  1835. 
Being  possessed  of  a  great  ambition  and  wonderful  powers  of 
memory,  he  read  and  almost  memorized  such  books  as  came  in  his 
way.  He  became  a  lawyer,  a  soldier,  a  physician,  an  editor,  a  poet, 
and  held  various  offices  of  trust,  and  in  all  of  these  lines  he  was  con- 
sidered to  be  a  master.  Major  Gordon,  although  he  will  probably 
be  longest  remembered  by  his  poetry,  wrote  verse  simply  because, 
with  his  rare  sympathies  and  ardent  love  of  nature,  he  could  not  well 
avoid  it.  Had  his  life  been  devoted  to  literature,  with  the  necessary 
time  allowed  for  careful  execution,  his  might  have  been  one  of 
America's  most  honored  names. 

Frank  W.  Harned  was  born  in  Middletown,  Henry  County,  Indiana, 


434  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES. 

July  2,  1863,  while  the  mighty  struggle  between  the  great  armies  of 
the  North  and  the  South  was  going  on  upon  the  field  of  Gettysburg. 

He  has  spent  most  of  his  life,  thus  far,  in  Cambridge  City,  Indiana, 
where  he  was  educated.  He  is  an  accountant  by  profession ;  but 
was  appointed  to  a  position  in  the  customs  service  in  1889,  while 
Benjamin  Harrison  was  President,  and  served  on  the  Western  coast 
under  Deputy  Collector  W.  W.  H.  McCurdy  at  Fort  Townsend, 
Washington,  holding  his  place  until  1893.  He  lives  in  Rich- 
mond. Indiana.  ' 

William  Wallace  Harney  was  born  at  Bloomington,  Indiana,  June 
20,  1832,  his  father,  the  late  John  H.  Harney,  having  been  at  that 
time  a  Professor  of  Mathematics  in  the  Indiana  University. 

Mr.  Harney  is  one  of  Indiana's  sons  who  has  wrought,  sung,  and 
won  fame  beyond  the  borders  of  his  native  state.  Much  of  his  life 
has  been  spent  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  he  was  educated 
in  the  Louisville  College,  came  under  the  influence  of  such  noted 
scholars  as  Noble  Butler  and  Professor  Peabody,  and  received  the 
encouragement  of  George  D.  Prentice,  to  whose  paper,  the  Louis- 
ville Journal,  he  was  a  frequent  contributor.  He  studied  law  and 
practised  his  profession  in  that  city,  and  was  also  for  a  time  con- 
nected with  the  editorial  management  of  the  old  Louisville  Demo- 
crat. For  the  past  quarter  of  a  century  he  has  lived  at  Orlando, 
Orange  County,  Florida.  He  is  an  occasional  contributor  of  the 
most  musical  verse  to  Harpers  Magazine  and  other  publications  of 
more  than  national  reputation. 

Lee  0.  Harris,  the  veteran  educator  and  poet,  was  born  in  Chester 
County,  Pennsylvania,  January  30,  1839, and  removed  with  his  parents 
to  Indiana  in  1852.  In  the  fall  of  1857  he  entered  upon  his  career 
as  a  teacher,  teaching  his  first  school  in  Fountain  Town,  Shelby 
County.  He  has  adhered  to  his  chosen  profession  ever  since, 
and  for  more  than  forty  years  has  been  one  of  the  state's  most 
capable  and  valued  educators.  He  served  through  the  war  as  a 
volunteer  soldier,  rising  to  the  rank  of  captain.  He  is  also  a  printer 
and  editor,  and  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Home  and  School 
Visitor.  His  home  has  been  almost  constantly  in  Greenfield  since 
the  war,  and  he  is  at  present  county  superintendent  of  the  schools 
of  Hancock  County.     To  the  world  he  is  known  by  the  wonderful 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  435 

sweetness  and  melody  of  his  poetry.  He  has  published  but  two 
volumes :  "  The  Man  Who  Tramps,"  a  story  of  vagabond  life,  in 
1878  ;  and  a  collection  of  his  poems  entitled  "  Interludes"  in  1893. 

Mrs.  Irene  Boynton  Hawley  of  Columbus,  Indiana,  is  a  poet  of  more 
than  ordinary  power,  who  has  contributed  very  liberally  to  the  periodi- 
cals of  Indiana  and  other  states,  and  has  lent  her  genius  to  the  sup- 
port of  many  good  works. 

Mrs.  Hawley  is  living  happily  in  her  adopted  city,  in  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  smiling  valleys  of  the  state,  endeared  to  those 
about  her  by  many  ties,  while  the  friends  and  admirers  who  know 
her  best  through  her  writings  are  hoping  for  many  a  good  thing 
from  her  graceful  pen  in  the  years  that  are  to  come. 

John  Hay  was  born  at  Salem,  Washington  County,  Indiana, 
October  8,  1838.  He  graduated  at  Brown  University,  studied  law, 
and  was  admitted  to  the  practice  in  1861.  In  the  same  year  he 
became  Assistant  Secretary  to  President  Lincoln,  and  later  his 
adjutant  and  aide-de-camp.  He  served  for  a  time  in  the  Union 
army,  and  gained  honorable  distinction  in  the  service. 

Since  the  close  of  the  war  he  has  served  as  Secretary  of  Legation 
at  Paris  and  Madrid,  Charge"  d'Affaires  at  Vienna,  associate  editor 
of  the  New  York  Tribune  for  six  years,  and  for  two  years  as  Assist- 
ant Secretary  of  State.  In  1897  he  was  appointed  by  President 
McKinley  as  Ambassador  to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  and  afterward 
promoted  by  the  President  —  with  the  approval  of  the  Senate  —  to 
the  position  of  Secretary  of  State,  which  he  still  holds.  His  pub- 
lished books  have  been  "Pike  County  Ballads"  in  1871,  and  in  the 
same  year  a  volume  of  Spanish  sketches  entitled  "Castilian  Days." 
To  these  succeeded  "  The  Life  of  Lincoln,"  written  in  collaboration 
with  John  G.  Nicolay,  published  in  the  Century  in  1886  and  1887, 
and  later  in  book  form.  In  1890  a  collection  of  his  poems  was 
published.  Mr.  Hay's  most  finished  poem  is,  perhaps,  "The  Castle 
in  Spain,"  and  the  most  popular  "  Little  Breeches,"  a  story  in  dia- 
lect, breathing  a  rough  but  wholesome  "  Pike  County  "  philosophy. 
These  have  been  used  in  so  many  collections  that  two  shorter 
selections  have  been  made  for  this  volume. 

Enos  B.  Heiney,  one  of  the  compilers  and  editors  of  this  volume, 
is   a   native  of  Huntington  County,   Indiana.     He  was   born  and 


436  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

reared  on  a  farm  and  educated  for  a  teacher,  in  which  profession, 
he  has,  thus  far  in  life,  succeeded  well,  being  at  this  time  the 
principal  of  one  of  the  important  schools  of  the  city  of  Huntington. 
He  is  happily  married,  and  with  his  accomplished  wife  and  little 
family  is  certainly  enjoying  the  heyday  of  life.  He  is  an  occasional 
contributor  of  verse  to  the  Indianapolis  papers  and  other  publica- 
tions, and  some  of  his  poems  have,  apparently,  met  with  decided 
favor.  He  is  a  lover  of  poetry,  and  gives  more  time  to  the  study  of 
it  than  to  efforts  to  produce  it.  He  takes  a  deep  interest  in  the 
literature  of  the  state,  not  in  any  narrow  nor  provincial  spirit,  but 
from  a  feeling  of  just  pride  in  the  contributions  of  Indiana's  sons 
and  daughters  to  the  worthy  literature  of  the  country. 

Charles  L.  Holstein  was  born  in  Madison,  Indiana,  in  the  year  1844. 
He  was  graduated  from  Hanover  College,  and  entered  Harvard 
Law  School,  from  which  he  was  graduated  with  the  degree  of  LL.B. 
He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1866,  and  after  that  date  he  became 
a  member  of  some  of  the  strongest  law  firms  in  the  state.  Although 
an  accomplished  orator,  he  never  sacrificed  logic  to  mere  rhetoric, 
and  it  was  in  public  addresses  that  he  won  the  most  fame.  "  Com- 
ing Half  Way,"  delivered  at  the  G.  A.  R.  National  Encampment 
at  Louisville,  Kentucky,  is  his  best-known  metrical  production. 
Mr.  Holstein  died  at  his  home  in  Indianapolis,  January  22,  1901 

Professor  Edwin  S.  Hopkins  is  one  of  Indiana's  gifted  sons,  who 
has  not  only  made  himself  famous  as  an  educator,  but  also  as  a  poet. 

His  contributions  to  the  press  have  been  many,  scholarly,  and 
always  giving  evidence  of  the  intuitions  of  a  well-directed  and 
wholesome  genius.  Professor  Hopkins's  best  work  is  contained  in 
his  longer  poems ;  but  many  of  his  shorter  flights  take  rank  with 
the  best  contemporary  verse.  Thus  far  Professor  Hopkins  has  led 
a  deservedly  successful  career,  and  the  appreciative  public  may  well 
hope  for  a  continuation  and  growth  of  his  gifts. 

Benjamin  Davenport  House  was  born  at  sea  in  the  year  1844.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  Congregational  minister  of  St.  Johnsbury,  Vermont. 
His  mother  died  during  his  infancy.  He  was  in  school  at  Boston, 
Massachusetts,  when  the  Civil  War  began.  He  promptly  left  the 
school  and  enlisted.  Before  the  war  closed  he  was  assigned  to  the 
Veteran  Reserve  Corps  on  account  of  a  severe  wound  from  which  he 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  437 

never  wholly  recovered,  and  transferred  to  Indianapolis,  which  was  his 
home  during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  Mr.  House  was  a  newspaper 
man,  and  was  employed,  at  different  times,  by  the  several  papers  of 
his  adopted  city.  He  devoted  much  time  to  the  G.  A.  R.,  and  was 
for  several  years  Assistant  Adjutant-General  of  Indiana.  He  wrote 
much  and  well  in  verse,  and  was  in  great  request  as  a  reader  of  his 
own  war  poems,  many  of  which  have  great  force  combined  with  deep 
pathos  and  tenderness.  He  was,  therefore,  a  favorite  at  grand 
army  and  regimental  reunions.  The  merits  of  his  poetry  were 
never  recognized  during  his  life  as  they  deserved  to  have  been. 
After  his  death  a  few  friends  and  admirers  published  in  handsome 
style  a  private  edition  of  selections  from  his  verse,  embracing  only 
what  they  considered  to  be  the  very  best  of  his  work.  He  died  in 
1887,  leaving  a  wife,  but  no  children,  to  survive  him. 

Horace  F.  Hubbard  is  a  native  of  the  village  of  Raysville,  Indiana. 
He  was  educated  in  the  public  schools,  and  was  graduated  from  the 
Newcastle  (Indiana)  High  School.  After  teaching  for  some  time, 
he  learned  the  printing  business,  and  later  became  a  journalist.  He 
has  been  a  member  of  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Cincinnati  Times- 
Star  for  a  number  of  years,  to  which  most  of  his  verse  has  been 
contributed.     He  is  unmarried. 

Benjamin  R.  Hyman  is  a  sprightly  young  man  of  Jewish  descent, 
who  adheres  to  the  faith  of  his  fathers.  His  first  introduction  to 
the  reading  public  of  Indiana  was  in  connection  with  the  Indian- 
apolis newspapers.  He  was  then,  for  a  time,  editor  of  the  Saturday 
Herald.  A  few  years  later  he  edited  the  Chicago  Magazine,  and 
was  rapidly  building  up  its  literary  character  when  the  publishers 
suddenly  suspended  its  publication. 

He  was  happily  married  in  1887  or  1888  to  a  Jewish  lady  of  Cincin- 
nati, Ohio.  He  has  recently  been  the  editor  of  a  Republican  news- 
paper at  Hammond,  Indiana. 

Mrs.  Narcissa  Lewis  Jenkinson  is  the  wife  of  Hon.  Isaac  Jenkinson, 
one  of  the  best-known  editors  and  public  men  of  Indiana.  Much  of 
her  earlier  married  life  was  spent  in  the  city  of  Fort  Wayne,  Indiana, 
where  her  husband  conducted  the  leading  paper  of  his  political 
faith.  During  the  administration  of  General  Grant,  Mrs.  Jenkinson 
accompanied  her  husband  to  Glasgow,  Scotland,  where  he  served  as 


438  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

United  States  Consul.  After  their  return  to  America  they  removed 
to  Richmond,  Indiana,  where  they  have  since  made  their  home. 

Mrs.  Jenkinson  enjoyed  good  educational  opportunities,  and  early 
in  life  exhibited  evidences  of  poetical  gifts.  Her  poems  are  of  a 
high  order  of  excellence. 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson  was  born  January  12,  1853.  His  boy- 
hood was  spent  at  Centerville,  Indiana,  where  he  received  a  high 
school  education.  In  1867  he  entered  Earlham  College,  graduating 
as  Bachelor  of  Science  in  1873,  to  which  the  college  added  the 
honorary  degree  Ph.D.  in  1889. 

In  1 88 1  Mr.  Johnson  became  assistant  editor  of  the  Century 
Magazine,  a  position  which  he  now  occupies. 

Mr.  Johnson's  literary  work,  in  addition  to  his  editorial  duties,  has 
been  confined  to  critical  articles  and  verse.  He  has  published  two 
volumes  of  poems,  both  from  the  press  of  the  Century  Company : 
"The  Winter  Hour  and  Other  Poems,"  1892;  "Songs  of  Liberty 
and  Other  Poems,"  1897. 

Mrs.  Annie  Fellows  Johnston  and  Mrs.  Albion  Fellows  Bacon,  "  The 
Fellows  Sisters,"  were  born  near  Evansville,  Indiana,  on  a  farm, 
where  they  spent  their  girlhood  days.  The  influence  of  their  coun- 
try life  shows  in  all  their  writings,  sympathy  with  nature  marking 
every  production.  In  1888  they  went  abroad,  spending  consider- 
able time  in  Ireland  and  Switzerland,  and  upon  their  return  were 
married  in  double  wedding.  Annie  married  William  L.  Johnston, 
and  her  sister,  Hilary  E.  Bacon,  both  prominent  business  men  of 
Evansville.  Mrs.  Johnston  has  given  more  attention  to  prose  than 
verse,  and  her  stories  have  been  extensively  circulated  both  at 
home  and  in  England  ;  "Joel :  A  Boy  of  Galilee,"  "  In  League  with 
Israel,"  "  The  Little  Colonel,"  "  Ole  Mammy's  Torment,"  and  "  The 
Gate  of  the  Giant  Scissors"  being  among  her  best-known  prose 
sketches. 

In  1897  the  sisters  published  together  a  volume  of  their  poems 
under  the  title  "Songs  Ysame."  It  contains  less  than  one-third 
of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Bacon,  who  writes  mostly  in  verse,  while  her 
sister's  field  is  avowedly  prose.  Mrs.  Bacon  is  also  a  graceful  and 
pleasing  essayist  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor. 

Mrs.  D.  M.  Jordan's  maiden  name  was  Dulcina  M.  Mason,  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES.  439 

she  was  born  at  Marathon,  New  York,  July  21,  1833,  and  died  at  her 
home  in  Richmond,  Indiana,  April  25,  1895. 

Mrs.  Jordan  did  not  enjoy  the  advantages  of  a  classical  education, 
but  being  possessed  of  an  active  and  eager  mind,  she  secured  a  large 
fund  of  knowledge  in  the  midst  of  a  life  of  toil  and  endeavor. 

She  was  married  when  quite  young  to  James  J.  Jordan,  who  was 
for  many  years  a  business  man  of  Richmond,  Indiana,  and  widely 
known  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  state. 

They  were  the  parents  of  a  large  family  of  children.  It  was  while 
surrounded  with  the  exacting  cares  of  the  household  and  the  rearing 
of  a  young  family  that  Mrs.  Jordan  did  most  of  her  writing,  and 
acquired  an  art  of  expression  that,  under  the  conditions,  seemed 
almost  marvelous. 

During  the  last  twenty  years  of  her  life  her  literary  and  editorial 
industry  knew  no  bounds,  and  often  exceeded  the  limits  of  her 
strength.  For  weeks  and  weeks  together  she  would  perform  both 
the  editorial  and  local  work  of  a  sprightly  daily,  almost  without  even 
the  aid  of  a  news-gatherer.  It  was,  probably,  the  over-strain  of  such 
excessive  toil,  coupled  with  many  sorrows,  that  caused  her  collapse 
and  death  from  paralysis. 

She  was  a  prolific  writer,  and  though  she  never  published  but  one 
volume  of  poems,  "  Rosemary  Leaves,"  her  verse  alone  would  have 
filled  several  such  books. 

One  who  was  well  qualified  to  speak  said  of  her  that  "  Her  chief 
distinction  was  as  a  poet.  Spontaneous,  graceful,  tender,  pathetic, 
she  wandered  tunefully  back  through  the  pleasant  fields  of  early 
experience.  She  struck  ringing  notes  for  the  right  in  all  living 
causes,  and  she  looked  longingly  ahead  for  the  good  which  the  soul 
promises  itself  after  its  wearing  conflict.11 

Dr.  David  Starr  Jordan,  the  eminent  president  of  Leland  Stanford 
Jr.  University,  though  not  an  Indianian  by  birth,  was  so  long  and 
prominently  connected  with  the  educational,  literary,  and  scientific 
interests  of  the  state,  as  the  president  of  Indiana  University  and  by 
his  many  scientific  studies,  while,  by  his  writings  and  his  daily  life, 
he  was  interested  in  whatever  seemed  for  the  best  good  of  the 
people,  that  Indiana,  without  denying  the  claims  of  other  states, 
looks  upon  him  as  one  of  her  own,  in  whom  she  is  well  pleased. 


440  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

It  was  not  generally  suspected  that  one  so  accurate  and  careful  in 
scientific  researches  as  he,  and  who  has  performed  such  prodigies  of 
labor  in  fields  reputed  to  be  entirely  barren  of  romance  and  poetry, 
was  the  possessor  of  a  rare  fund  of  humor  and  a  vein  of  genuine 
poesy,  until  his  connection  with  and  contributions  to  the  programmes 
of  the  Western  Association  of  Writers  brought  out  the  pleasant 
fact.  Since  then  he  has  occasionally  appealed  to  his  friends  through 
the  vehicle  of  masterful  verse,  and  surely  the  author  of  "  Vive"rols," 
and  "  Men  Told  Me,  Lord,"  will  have  no  cause  to  blush  when  his 
friends  add  "  Poet "  to  the  numerous  titles  that  he  has  justly  earned. 

Isaac  H.  Julian  was  born  in  Wayne  County,  Indiana,  June  19, 1823. 
His  opportunities  for  school  training  were  small,  but  this  fact  did  not 
suppress  his  zeal  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  With  him  it  has  been 
a  lifelong  quest.  His  genius  runs  much  to  the  pastoral,  and  the 
description  of  scenery  has  been  a  constant  delight  to  him.  He  is 
also  an  enthusiastic  reformer,  and  often  makes  his  verse  plead  the 
cause  of  the  oppressed,  or  in  the  interest  of  temperance  and  virtue. 
For  more  than  forty  years  Mr.  Julian  has  been  in  the  editorial  har- 
ness, and  always  in  charge  of  his  own  paper.  Since  1873  ne  has 
lived  in  Texas,  and  is  at  present  editor  of  the  People's  Era  of  San 
Marcos. 

Mrs.  Esther  Nelson  Karn,  of  Fort  Wayne,  Indiana,  author  of 
"  Snow  Flakes,"  a  little  volume  of  excellent  short  poems,  says  of  her- 
self: "My  first  recollections  are  of  a  sunny  spot  in  De  Kalb  County, 
Indiana  —  a  country  home  nestled  among  the  trees,  not  far  from 
which  sparkled  the  cool  limpid  waters  of  the  '  Old  St.  Joe,'  of  which 
we  all  love  to  sing.  There  my  first  lessons  were  learned,  and,  after 
taking  the  course  in  the  Hicksville  High  School  and  one  year  of 
teaching  there,  I  married  and  came  to  Fort  Wayne,  where,  for 
eleven  years,  I  have  occupied  my  time  as  book-keeper  in  my 
husband's  music  store  —  and  in  writing  verses." 

Hon.  Isaac  Kinley  was  born  in  Randolph  County,  Indiana,  Novem- 
ber 7,  1 82 1.  At  the  age  of  four  years  his  parents  removed  to  Wayne 
County,  where  he  was  educated.  He  devoted  himself  most  earnestly 
to  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  and  became  one  of  the  foremost  edu- 
cators of  his  time.  He  was  a  power  in  the  early  antislavery  move- 
ment, and  was  a  delegate  to  the  convention  which  framed  the  present 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  44 1 

constitution  of  the  state.  When  the  Civil  War  broke  out,  he  organ- 
ized a  company  and  was  elected  its  captain,  rising  during  the  war  to 
the  rank  of  major. 

His  poetry  has  been  written,  for  the  most  part,  in  behalf  of  reforms ; 
but  some  of  his  poems  are  not  of  that  nature,  and  in  them  his  art  is 
at  its  best. 

He  resides  at  Sunland,  near  Los  Angeles,  California. 

Mrs.  Jennie  G.  Kinley  was  born  in  Bristol,  Maine,  May  8,  1822. 
The  earlier  years  of  her  life  were  spent  in  the  vicinity  of  "  Old 
Brown's  Head,1'  that  she  has  celebrated  in  song.  She  was  by 
nature  both  poet  and  painter ;  studying  art  in  Boston  she  became 
a  landscape  painter  of  great  merit.  Coming  to  Indianapolis,  and 
finding  small  demand  for  the  work  of  her  brush  there,  she  accepted 
a  position  as  a  teacher  in  the  academy  at  Union,  a  few  miles  north 
of  Knightstown.  Here  she  was  married,  in  1859,  to  Isaac  Kinley, 
the  founder  of  the  academy.  She  died  in  Los  Angeles,  California, 
in  May,  1877. 

It  was  during  her  life  in  Indiana  that  her  most  important  contri- 
butions to  literature  were  made.  "  The  Iron  Bedstead,"  which  is  of 
too  great  length  for  our  space,  was  a  very  popular  satire  of  bigotry 
and  intolerance. 

Mrs.  J.  V.  H.  Koons,  of  Muncie,  is  a  musician  and  the  author  of 
several  compositions,  a  good  critic,  and  poet.  Her  work,  which  has 
been  published  without  effort  to  win  recognition,  shows  that  she  pos- 
sesses true  poetic  feeling  and  subtle  graces  of  interpretative  expres- 
sion. She  contemplates  the  publication  of  her  verse  in  book  form 
at  an  early  date.  Her  poetry  is  contemplative,  philosophical,  and 
hopeful,  and  often  rises  to  heights  of  surprising  beauty. 

Mary  Hannah  Krout,  author  of  "  Little  Brown  Hands,1'  wrote  her 
name  indelibly  upon  the  popular  heart  of  America  by  that  beautiful 
poem,  and  whatever  honors  she  may  have  achieved  since  have  only 
endeared  her  to  the  wide  circle  of  friends  it  won  for  her.  In  recent 
years  Miss  Krout  has  won  a  distinguished  place  in  letters  through  a 
department  in  the  Cliicago  Inter-Ocean,  and  through  her  books  of 
travel  in  foreign  lands.  Her  work  upon  the  Sandwich  Islands,  "A 
Looker-On  in  London,"  and  "  Letters  from  China,"  are  exceedingly 
valuable,  as  well  as  graceful,  additions  to  the  literature  of  the  world. 


442  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

Miss  Krout  is  a  native  of  Crawfordsville,  Indiana,  where  she  still 
resides. 

Harvey  Porter  Lay  ton  was  born  August  2,  1871,  in  Warren 
County,  Indiana.  He  was  for  a  time  associate  editor  of  the  La 
Fayette  Evening  Call,  but  was  obliged,  owing  to  failing  health,  to 
give  up  the  work.  In  1898  he  edited  and  published  "Songs  of 
Hoosier  Singers,"  a  [small  volume  of  poetry,  containing  choice  bits 
of  verse  of  six  Indiana  poets,  including  himself.  His  poetry  has 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  Boston  Transcript,  Louisville 
Courier-Journal,  Atlanta  Constitution,  Indianapolis,  and  other 
papers. 

Mrs.  Frances  Locke,  whose  maiden  name  was  Sprengle,  was  born 
in  northern  Ohio  about  the  year  1830.  She  was  educated  at  the 
Ashland  (Ohio)  Academy,  and  began  to  write  at  an  early  age,  con- 
tributing at  first  to  school  and  college  publications,  and  later  for  the 
literary  papers  and  magazines  of  the  day.  She  was  married  to  John 
Locke,  a  newspaper  man  of  Cincinnati,  and  soon  after  removed  to 
Indianapolis,  Indiana,  where  her  maturer  years  were  passed,  and 
where  her  best  literary  work  was  done. 

Richard  K.  Lyon  was  the  nom  de  plume  of  a  young  man  who 
lived  at  Nobles ville,  Indiana,  a  few  years  since,  and  wrote  sprightly 
poems  for  the  Indianapolis  newspapers,  some  of  which,  especially 
"  Love's  Coming,"  attracted  the  favorable  attention  of  the  critics, 
this  poem  having  been  copied  into  Current  Literature  as  among 
the  choice  things  in  contemporaneous  verse.  His  identity  still 
remains  a  secret. 

Albert  W.  Macy  was  born  in  Randolph  County,  Indiana,  in  1853. 
He  was  educated  in  the  Mooresville  (Indiana)  schools,  and  finished 
his  course  in  Earlham  College,  from  which  he  was  graduated  with 
the  degree  of  A.B.  in  the  class  of  1877.  For  several  years  he  held 
the  position  of  literary  reader  with  the  publishing  firm  of  S.  C. 
Griggs  &  Company  of  Chicago.  At  this  writing  he  is  Western 
manager  for  the  Macmillan  Company  of  New  York,  and  resides  with 
his  family  at  Western  Springs,  Illinois.  His  poetry  is  remarkable 
for  its  delicacy  and  sweetness. 

James  B.  Martindale  was  born  upon  a  farm  in  Henry  County,  Indi- 
ana.    He  came  of  a  sturdy  pioneer  family  that  has  produced  a  num- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 


443 


ber  of  men  and  women  who  have  been  prominent  in  the  communities 
in  which  they  have  lived. 

He  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  and  at  the  New  Castle 
Seminary,  studied  for  the  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  practice  in 
his  native  county.  He  soon  turned  his  attention  to  a  branch  of  the 
business  that  seemed  to  offer  greater  rewards,  and  first  established 
in  Chicago  the  "  Martindale  Law  and  Collection  Agency,"  the  head 
office  of  which  is  now  in  New  York.  The  business  has  grown  into 
large  proportions,  and  remains  under  the  management  of  Mr.  Martin- 
dale  and  his  two  sons.  Mr.  Martindale  is  still  loyal  to  the  state 
and  locality  of  his  birth,  where  he  was  married,  and  where  his  young 
wife  died,  leaving  to  him  the  care  of  the  two  sons  who  are  now  his 
business  partners.  His  poetry  is  nearly  always  devoted  to  rural  and 
peaceful  home  surroundings  among  familiar  scenes  and  friends. 

Dr.  James  Newton  Mathews,  the  "Poet  of  the  Prairies,11  is  a 
native  of  Indiana,  but  removed  from  the  state  with  his  parents 
while  yet  but  a  mere  lad.  After  the  close  of  his  primary  school 
days  he  returned  to  the  state  of  his  birth  long  enough  to  graduate 
from  De  Pauw  University. 

Dr.  Mathews  fills  Mr.  Pfrimmer's  definition  of  Riley,  in  the 
matter  of  age,  "  He  is  this  side  of  forty,"  and,  like  Riley,  his  genius 
is  unique  and  his  popularity  contagious.  His  poetry  is  so  penetrat- 
ing and  sweet,  and  so  thrilled  and  thrilling  with  the  tingling  taste  of 
wild  spices,  the  aroma  of  wild  life,  the  voices  and  songs  of  untamed 
nature,  and  the  wholesomeness  and  heartsomeness  of  unspoiled  souls, 
that  the  people  love  him  for  what  he  is  and  what  he  sings. 

Meanwhile  he  ministers  to  the  physical  ills  of  a  faithful  clientage 
of  neighbors  and  friends  in  and  about  the  prairie  town  of  Mason, 
Effingham  County,  Illinois,  and  is  the  trusted  family  physician  in 
many  a  household  where  his  poems  are  among  the  most  cherished 
volumes  on  the  book  shelves. 

Mrs.  Zerilda  McCoy's  maiden  name  was  Nicholas.  She  is  a  sister 
of  Miss  Anna  Nicholas,  author  of  "An  Idyl  of  the  Wabash."  Mrs. 
McCoy  was  for  many  years  a  resident  of  Indianapolis,  and  contributed 
short  poems  of  decided  merit  to  the  Saturday  Herald  and  other 
Indiana  papers  of  that  day.  Her  present  home  is  in  the  city  of 
Tacoma,  Washington. 


444  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

W.  W.  H.  McCurdy  was  born  in  the  province  of  Ontario,  Canada, 
but  removed  to  Indiana  in  early  life,  where  he  was  for  many  years 
an  active  figure  in  business,  politics,  and  literature,  making  the  city 
of  Indianapolis  his  home.  He  has  written  in  verse  and  prose,  and 
has  been  a  mine  of  good  things  to  a  number  of  literary  publications, 
to  which  he  gave  freely ;  for  being  a  successful  business  man  he 
wrote  for  love  rather  than  for  money  or  fame.  Few  men  have  been 
more  active  in  production  than  he,  though  few  of  his  neighbors  knew 
that  the  "  W.  Harrold  "  of  the  newspapers  was  their  friend  McCurdy. 
President  Harrison  gave  him  the  appointment  of  deputy  collector 
of  customs  at  Port  Townsend,  Washington,  a  position  which  he 
filled  with  honor  and  fidelity.  At  the  close  of  the  Harrison  admin- 
istration he  removed  to  California,  where  his  abundant  energy  and 
business  activity  finds  employment  in  connection  with  the  business 
of  the  San  Joaquin  Electric  Company,  which  furnishes  light  and 
water  to  Fresno  and  other  cities ;  but  he  still  continues  his  literary 
activities,  though  perhaps  not  so  vigorously  as  in  other  years.  His 
writings  have  never  been  collected  in  book  form. 

Silas  B.  McManus  was  born  in  Rootstown,  Portage  County,  Ohio, 
September  17,  1845.  In  ^^3  ne  removed  with  his  parents  to  Lima, 
Indiana,  and  settled  on  "  Marsh  Brook  Farm,"  where  he  still  resides. 
He  studied  medicine  and  was  graduated  at  the  Medical  College  of 
Michigan  University,  but  he  never  practiced.  As  an  author,  he 
has  written  largely  for  Puck,  the  Boston  Transcript,  Detroit  Free 
Press,  the  New  York  Independent,  Burlington  Hawk  Eye,  Rani's 
Horn,  and  other  literary  or  semi-literary  publications.  His  "Rural 
Rhymes"  appeared  in  1898.  Mr.  McManus  is  probably  best  known 
as  the  author  of  "  Fot  Would  You  Take  for  Me?"  a  tender  little 
child-poem  which  is  given  in  this  work. 

Mrs.  Josephine  W.  Mellette  is  the  wife  of  James  T.  Mellette,  an 
attorney  and  land  owner  of  New  Castle,  Indiana.  Mrs.  Mellette  is 
the  mother  of  a  family  of  bright  little  girls ;  but  in  the  midst  of  the 
cares  of  her  household  she  finds  time  to  write  poems  that  are  received 
with  marked  favor  by  the  friends  for  whom  they  are  written.  She 
is  not  devoid  of  a  worthy  ambition  to  excel,  and  there  are  reasons  to 
anticipate  for  her  a  larger  audience  than  she  has  yet  sung  to. 

Freeman  E.  Miller  is  a  young  man  who  has  done  some  fine  work, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  445 

especially  in  the  way  of  short  poems  and  sonnets.  Much  of  his  poetry 
has  appeared  in  the  various  publications  of  Indianapolis. 

Joaquin  [Cincinnatus  Heine]  Miller,  the  "  Poet  of  the  Sierras,"  was 
born  near  Liberty,  Union  County,  Indiana,  in  1834.  The  house  in 
which  he  was  born  is  still  standing,  and  Mr.  Miller  has  a  number 
of  relatives  living  in  that  county.  He  visited  them  and  the  old  home 
in  the  spring  of  1899. 

He  removed  to  the  far  West  with  his  parents  when  less  than  ten 
years  of  age.  Thenceforth  his  teachers  were  the  great  solitudes,  the 
mighty  mountains,  the  wide  plains  and  rushing  torrents.  He  grew 
up  amid,  and  was  inspired  by,  picturesque  scenes  and  romantic  con- 
ditions. His  genius  was  equal  to  the  demands  they  made  upon  it, 
and  no  poet  ever  filled  his  mission  and  dreamed  and  sung  up  to  its 
great  possibilities  more  successfully  than  he  has  done.  He  is  one 
of  America's  very  great  poets,  and  it  is  little  to  our  credit  that  he 
was  forced  to  "  win  his  spurs  "  in  England  before  the  land  of  his 
birth  would  listen  to  his  song. 

Miller  is  one  of  those  rare  beings  of  whom  you  cannot  say  that 
he  was  educated  at  this  school  or  yonder  college.  Like  that  other 
Miller  who  made  geology  as  attractive  as  romance,  his  teachers 
were  the  forces  and  phenomena  of  nature,  and  he  learned  his  les- 
sons well. 

If  he  is  old  and  gray,  it  is  largely  the  result  of  his  restless  life  of 
adventure,  exposure,  and  toil.  His  mountain  home  near  Oakland, 
California,  overlooking  sea  and  plain,  is  singularly  suited  to  the 
character  of  the  man  and  his  genius. 

Mrs.  Hettie  Athon  Morrison,  who  was  the  daughter  of  the  late  Dr. 
James  S.  Athon,  once  prominent  in  Indiana  politics,  spent  most  of 
her  life  in  Indianapolis,  surrounded  by  friends  and  admirers,  and 
was  the  author  of  many  charming  sketches  and  poems.  She  pub- 
lished but  one  book,  "  My  Summer  in  a  Kitchen,"  a  collection  of 
graceful  sketches  that  should  have  brought  their  author  more  solid 
rewards  than  she  received  from  them.  It  is  a  genuine  contribu- 
tion to  the  higher  literature  of  the  state.  Her  poetry  is  chaste, 
delicate,  and  full  of  tender  yearnings  and  holy  aspirations. 

Mrs.  Mary  E.  Nealy  was  born  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  December 
12,  1825.     Her  maiden  name  was  Mary  Elizabeth  Hare.     She  was 


446  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES. 

married,  December  25,  1842,  to  Hugh  Nealy,  and  a  few  years  later 
they  removed  to  Indianapolis,  Indiana. 

Mrs.  Nealy's  poems  found  ready  acceptance  with  the  magazines  of 
the  East,  and  many  of  her  productions,  including  "  The  Little  Shoe," 
found  their  way  to  England  and  won  popularity  there.  The  few 
selections  which  our  space  enables  us  to  give  from  her  poems  are 
merely  indicative  of  the  grace  and  beauty  of  her  verse.  Her  present 
home  is  in  Washington,  D.C. 

William  P.  Needham  was  born  in  Fountain  City,  Wayne  County, 
Indiana,  December  11,  1853.  He  attended  the  public  schools  of 
northern  Wayne  County  until  he  was  twelve  years  of  age,  when  he 
entered  the  office  of  the  Winchester,  (Indiana)/^r«a/to  learn  print- 
ing. After  two  years  spent  in  that  office,  and  the  devotion  of  ten  years 
to  his  trade  in  various  towns  and  cities,  he  began  a  very  successful 
career  as  an  editor  and  publisher  in  his  adopted  town  of  Winchester, 
which  continued  with  but  one  break,  caused  by  the  failure  of  his 
health,  for  about  ten  years.  He  was  also  the  town  clerk  of  Win- 
chester for  twenty  consecutive  years.  He  has  published  two  books, 
both  of  which  won  favorable  comment.  The  first,  a  mingling  of 
philosophy,  theology,  and  poetry,  he  called  "  Phantasmagorian  Phi- 
losophy"; his  first  successful  newspaper  having  borne  the  queer 
name  of  the  Phantasmagorian.  The  second  was  "The  House  of 
Graydon,"  a  story.  His  best  work  is  his  verse,  which  is  whole- 
some, true,  and  uplifting.  His  death,  in  the  summer  of  1899,  closed 
the  career  of  a  singularly  devoted  and  gifted  man. 

Mrs.  Rebecca  S.  Nichols  was  born  in  New  Jersey,' but  came  west 
with  her  father,  Dr.  E.  B.  Reed,  when  quite  young.  She  was  mar- 
ried in  1838  to  the  late  Willard  Nichols,  a  printer,  who  was  well- 
known  to,  and  popular  with,  newspaper  men  and  other  literary 
people.  She  had  lived  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  and  Philadelphia 
before  coming  to  Indiana.  Her  greatest  period  of  literary  activity  was 
during  the  fifteen  years  that  ended  with  1855,  and  she  has  published 
very  little  since  that  year.  Her  «  Songs  of  the  Hearth  and  Hearth- 
stone "  were  published  by  Thomas  Cowperthwait  &  Son  of  Phila- 
delphia in  185 1.  Her  poems  are  of  a  high  order  of  merit,  and 
possessed  of  great  sweetness  and  beauty.  She  has  lived  in  Indian- 
apolis for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  has  always  been  sur- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  447 

rounded  by  admiring  friends.  "The  Bonny  Brown  Bird  in  the 
Mulberry  Tree"  is  perhaps  the  poem  which  best  identifies  her  with 
the  state  in  which  she  has  passed  the  afternoon  of  her  life. 

Meredith  Nicholson  was  born  in  Crawfordsville,  Indiana,  December 
9,  1866.  His  parents  removed  to  Indianapolis  when  he  was  still  very 
young,  and  that  city  was  his  home  until  quite  recently,  when  he 
removed  to  Denver,  Colorado. 

Mr.  Nicholson  was  for  a  time  reporter  for  the  Indianapolis  Sen- 
tinel, and  then  for  ten  years  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  News. 
He  has  contributed  prose  and  poetry  to  various  periodicals,  includ- 
ing the  Century,  Harpers,  New  England  Magazine,  Critic,  and 
Chap  Book.  He  edited  the  poems  of  the  late  Benjamin  D.  House, 
and  has  published  a  volume  of  his  own  poems,  "  Short  Flights," 
through  the  Bowen-Merrill  Company.  Mr.  Nicholson  is  rapidly 
winning  a  high  position  among  American  poets. 

John  C.  Ochiltree  was  born  in  Union  County,  Indiana,  and  was 
reared  in  the  village  of  Glenwood,  Rush  County.  He  taught  school 
for  ten  years,  and  in  1880  took  charge  of  the  Weekly  Times  of  Con- 
nersville.  He  has  been  engaged  in  newspaper  work  since  that  time. 
From  1884  to  1886  he  was  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Indianapolis 
Saturday  Herald,  a  literary  paper  founded  by  George  C.  Harding. 
Here  he  made  an  extensive  acquaintance  with  literary  people  in 
Indiana  and  adjoining  states,  and  in  1886  assisted  in  the  organiza- 
tion of  the  Western  Association  of  Writers.  During  his  journalistic 
career  Mr.  Ochiltree  has  given  considerable  attention  to  literature. 
He  has  written  poems  and  short  stories.  His  humorous  story, 
"Handicapped  by  Fate,"  was  pronounced  by  the  S.  S.  McClure 
syndicate  one  of  the  best-selling  stories  ever  handled  by  them.  A 
volume  of  his  poems  and  sketches  appeared  in  January,  1898.  He 
is,  at  present,  managing  editor  of  the  Daily  News  of  Dayton,  Ohio. 

Richard  Owen  was  the  youngest  son  of  Robert  Owen,  the  philan- 
thropist, who,  early  in  the  century,  purchased  the  lands  of  the  Rap- 
pite  Colony  on  the  lower  Wabash,  and  established  the  celebrated 
social  community  at  New  Harmony,  which  brought  so  many  scholars 
and  thinkers  to  the  young  backwoods  state. 

Richard  Owen  was  born  near  New  Lanark,  Scotland,  in  1810,  and 
was  educated  mainly  in  the  famous  schools  of  Hofwyl,  Switzerland. 


448  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES. 

Although  never  so  well-known  in  literature  and  politics  as  his 
brother,  Robert  Dale  Owen,  he  accomplished  more  in  science  and 
business  than  he.  He  was  noted  as  a  geologist,  lecturer,  teacher, 
author,  professor  in,  and  president  of  colleges,  and  state  geologist. 
He  died  late  in  the  eighties. 

Daniel  L.  Paine,  poet  and  editor,  was  born  at  Richmond,  Maine, 
October  30,  1830.  He  had  learned  the  printing  business  at  Bangor, 
Maine,  had  experience  as  the  publisher  of  a  temperance  paper,  had 
removed  to  the  then  village  of  St.  Anthony  on  the  Mississippi 
River,  and  was  at  work  upon  a  newly  fledged  paper  at  that  place  by 
the  time  he  was  twenty  years  of  age.  It  is  to  him  that  the  city  of 
Minneapolis  is  indebted  for  its  euphonious  name. 

He  removed  to  Indianapolis  about  the  year  i860,  and  was  for 
more  than  thirty  years  connected  with  the  best  papers  of  that  city. 
When  the  Evening  News  was  established,  he  became  Mr.  Holliday's 
trusted  lieutenant  upon  the  editorial  staff,  holding  the  place  for  more 
than  twenty  years  until  the  disease  that  caused  his  death  entirely 
disabled  him.  It  was  during  his  Indianapolis  life  that  the  poems 
upon  which  his  literary  reputation  rests  were  written.  They  are  few 
in  number,  but  of  remarkably  fine  quality.  The  lines  entitled  "At 
Elberon  "  are  regarded  by  many  critics  as  the  best  that  the  Garfield 
tragedy  called  forth,  while  "  Da  Capo,11  which  was  inspired  by  the 
singing  and  playing  of  an  old  tune  by  an  elderly  lady  (the  late  Mrs. 
James  Blake),  who  was  greatly  beloved,  is  a  masterpiece  of  pathos 
and  beauty. 

Mr.  Paine  was  a  critic  of  great  insight  and  superior  judgment,  yet 
gentle  and  helpful  to  all  who  sought  his  advice.  He  was  a  genial 
companion  and  a  loyal  friend.  His  death  resulted  from  a  slow 
paralysis  from  which  he  suffered  for  several  years,  during  which  time 
his  faithful  wife  sickened  and  died.  Through  it  all  he  maintained 
his  kindly  geniality.     He  died  at  St.  Vincents  Hospital,  May  6,  1895. 

Benjamin  S.  Parker  was  born  in  a  pioneer  cabin  in  Henry 
County,  Indiana,  February  10,  1833,  and  reared  in  the  midst  of  the 
exacting  toils  of  the  farm-making  period  of  the  stated  history.  But 
humble  as  was  their  cabin  home,  his  parents  were  people  of 
superior  intelligence.  They  were  lovers  of  books  and  seekers  after 
knowledge,  and  his  father  was  a  pioneer  school-teacher.     In  their 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  449 

home  they  practiced  the  good  old  habit  of  reading  aloud,  both  the 
father  and  mother  having  been  excellent  readers,  and  Mr.  Parker 
traces  his  interest  in  literature  back  to  the  long  winter  evenings 
when  his  parents  read  Scott's  novels  and  poetry,  Bulwer,  Burns,  and 
Byron  aloud,  by  the  light  of  the  roaring  log  fire  as  it  flamed  up  the 
wide-throated  chimney.  There  were  other  people  in  the  neighbor- 
hood who  were  seeking  knowledge,  also,  for  themselves,  and  more 
especially  for  their  children.  The  result  was  a  school,  which  grew 
to  be  a  remarkably  good  one  for  that  day  and  time. 

In  that  school  Mr.  Parker  was  educated,  but  he  has  been  a  student 
ever  since.  He  began  to  write  when  he  was  yet  a  boy,  and  has 
written  both  in  prose  and  verse.  He  has,  besides  his  early  toils  on 
the  farm,  been  a  teacher,  editor,  and  office-holder,  and  has  done  much 
business  both  of  a  public  and  private  nature.  He  has  written  more 
prose  than  verse ;  but  has  three  volumes  of  verse  still  in  print,  and 
has  been  a  contributor  to  a  number  of  the  leading  periodicals. 

He  was  married  in  1869  to  Miss  Huldah  Wickersham,  and  their 
family  consists  of  two  daughters  and  one  son,  all  grown  and  fill- 
ing honorable  places  in  life.  The  family  home  is  in  Newcastle, 
Indiana. 

Edwin  E.  Parker  was  born  upon  a  farm  in  Henry  County, 
Indiana,  December  11,  1840.  He  enjoyed  good  educational  oppor- 
tunities, both  in  the  public  schools  and  in  a  higher  school.  He 
early  developed  poetical  tendencies.  He  was  a  soldier  in  the  Union 
army,  and  has  been  a  lawyer  and  a  newspaper  man.  He  has  not 
written  extensively  in  verse,  but  has  produced  some  short  poems  of 
much  merit.     His  home  is  in  Richmond,  Indiana. 

Oran  K.  Parker  was  born  in  Henry  County,  Indiana,  in  1868,  and 
has  spent  most  of  his  life  in  Richmond,  Indiana,  where  he  was  edu- 
cated. He  is  a  printer.  He  has  decided  musical  talents  and  strong 
natural  endowments  as  a  writer.  His  poetry  shows  finish  and  polish, 
as  well  as  decided  spirit,  and  gives  much  promise  of  maturity  and 
strength. 

Gavin  Payne  is  a  native  of  Indiana,  born  in  Jefferson  County 
twenty-nine  years  ago.  He  has  been  engaged  for  several  years  in 
the  newspaper  business,  and  was  city  editor  of  the  Indianapolis 
Journal.    He  has  recently  become  connected  with  the  Indianapolis 


450  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

Press.  He  has  been  a  member  of  the  Indianapolis  city  council, 
and  was  for  a  time  president  of  the  Press  Club. 

The  demands  of  active  newspaper  life  have  left  but  little  time  for 
verse  writing,  but  the  few  excellent  poems  produced  by  Mr.  Payne 
are  indicative  of  a  high  order  of  genius. 

William  W.  Pfrimmer  was  born  at  Metropolis  City,  Illinois, 
January  29,  1856.  His  parents  were  both  natives  of  Indiana,  and 
most  of  his  life  has  been  spent  in  this  state.  His  school  days  ended 
with  the  high  school,  but  he  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the 
bar.  A  distaste  for  the  profession  led  him  to  abandon  law  for  the 
teaching  profession,  and  in  1889  he  was  elected  county  superinten- 
dent of  schools  of  Newton  County,  which  office  he  held  for  ten  years. 

Mr.  Pfrimmer's  literary  work  is  attractive  and  popular,  especially 
his  dialect  verse.  His  volume  entitled  "  Driftwood  "  is  in  its  third 
edition.  Many  of  his  best  poems  have  never  appeared  in  print, 
but  have  been  read  with  success  before  large  audiences,  and  he  has 
become  deservedly  popular  as  a  public  reader  and  entertainer.  His 
home  is  at  Kentland,  Indiana. 

John  James  Piatt  comes  of  good,  patriotic  ancestry,  his  grand- 
father, James  Piatt,  having  served  in  the  United  States  army  during 
the  last  war  with  England,  and  his  father  having  been  killed  by  the 
Indians  on  the  occasion  of  St.  Clair's  defeat.  Mr.  Piatt  was  born 
in  Dearborn  County,  Indiana,  March  I,  1835,  and  attended  school 
at  Rising  Sun  until  he  was  nine  years  old,  when  the  family  removed 
to  Columbus,  Ohio,  and  thence  to  Illinois.  He  has  been  an  editor, 
office-holder,  and  author.  He  began  to  write  poetry  while  living  in 
Illinois.  He  also  was  a  favorite  with  George  D.  Prentice,  and  was 
for  a  time  employed  upon  his  newspaper.  He  has  contributed  to  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  and  other  leading  magazines  of  the  United  States 
and  England.  His  first  appearance  in  book  form  was  in  "  Poems  by 
Two  Friends,"  the  friend  being  W.  D.  Howells.  He  has  spent 
much  of  his  life  in  the  employment  of  the  general  government  at 
Washington,  in  the  Cincinnati  post-office,  and  in  the  consular  service. 
His  wife,  formerly  Miss  Sallie  M.  Bryan,  a  native  of  Kentucky,  is 
also  a  poet  of  marked  merit.  Mr.  Piatt's  success,  great  as  it  has 
been,  has  not  equaled  his  deserts.  His  home  is  in  one  of  Cin- 
cinnati's beautiful  suburbs. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  451 

Robert  E.  Pretlow  was  born  near  Dublin,  Wayne  County,  Indiana, 
July  15,  1862.  He  was  graduated  from  Earlham  College  in  1883. 
He  was  for  many  years  a  successful  teacher  in  the  public  graded 
schools  and  for  a  time  was  in  charge  of  the  Friends'  Bloomingdale 
(Indiana)  Academy  and  also  of  the  Southland  (Arkansas)  College. 
After  leaving  Southland  he  abandoned  teaching  and  studied  den- 
tistry, a  profession  which  he  now  follows  at  Thorntown,  Indiana. 

The  excellent  qualities  of  his  poetry  prove  that  he  has  made  no 
mistake  in  devoting  his  spare  hours  to  literature. 

Herman  Charles  Frederick  Rave  is  a  native  of  Kiel,  Duchy  of 
Holstein,  Germany.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  came  to  New  York. 
Later  he  removed  to  Jeffersonville,  Indiana,  where  he  still  resides. 
He  began  to  write  in  English  soon  after  coming  to  this  country, 
and  gained  the  favorable  notice  of  the  late  William  Cullen  Bryant. 
Although  his  immigration  changed  his  song  language,  he  has  pro- 
duced many  finished  poems  in  English,  "  Calling  the  Cows  "  being 
one  of  the  sweetest  love  songs  in  the  language. 

Mrs.  Maude  Moses  Redman  (Margaret  Manning)  was  born  in 
Peru,  Indiana,  and  passed  all  her  early  life  in  that  place.  She 
attended  the  public  school,  graduating  from  the  high  school  at  the 
age  of  seventeen,  and  taught  in  the  Miami  County  schools  a  short 
time.  In  1888  she  married  Mr.  William  M.  Redman.  They  lived 
in  Indianapolis  a  few  years,  then  moved  to  Irvington,  Indiana,  where 
they  now  reside. 

Mrs.  Redman  writes  verses  for  love  of  the  work  and  as  a  recrea- 
tion. "  Azrael,"  "  A  Summer  Day,"  "  Life  is  so  Fleet,"  "  A  Quest," 
are  considered  some  of  her  best  poems. 

Joseph  Samuel  Reed  was  born  in  Sullivan,  Indiana,  in  the  year 
1852.  Having  acquired  a  common  school  education,  he  took  a 
course  in  Franklin  College,  and  in  1875  engaged  in  the  drug  busi- 
ness in  his  native  city. 

In  1892  Mr.  Reed  published  a  volume  of  verse  entitled  a Winnowed 
Grasses,"  and,  later,  a  second  volume,  ".From  Nature's  Nooks." 
Mr.  Reed  is  justly  popular  as  a  dialect  poet,  "Stirrin1  06""  being 
one  of  his  best-known  productions  in  that  line.  He  is  a  member 
of  the  Western  Association  of  Writers,  having  served  as  treasurer 
four  vears. 


452  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

Peter  Fishe  Reed,  the  poet-painter,  was  born  in  Boston,  Massachu- 
setts, May  5,  1819.  He  was  versatile  in  ability,  and  followed  a  number 
of  callings  at  different  periods  of  his  life,  having  been,  as  he  averred, 
a  farmer,  shoemaker,  house  and  sign  painter,  editor,  doctor,  photog- 
rapher, music  teacher,  artist,  portrait  and  landscape  painter,  being 
quite  successful  for  a  time  in  the  latter  calling.  He  said  of  him- 
self: "  I  heard  a  tune  played  by  a  band  in  the  street,  not  long  since, 
that  I  wrote  twenty-five  years  ago,"  and  also,  "  I  made  a  small  for- 
tune, invested  it  in  a  farm,  bad  luck  took  away  all  but  the  homestead, 
and  the  fire  took  that ;  but  in  all  my  vicissitudes  I  have  had  friends 
whom  I  love  with  an  outflow  of  affection  which  I  cannot  explain." 
Through  all  his  life  music  and  poetry  were  his  companions  and 
solaces.  He  located  in  Vernon,  Indiana,  about  the  year  1850,  and 
wrought  at  his  art  there,  and  in  Indianapolis  for  many  years. 

It  was  during  his  Indiana  life  that  the  best  and  most  popular  of 
his  poems  were  written.  He  published  in  1868,  through  a  Chicago 
firm  of  publishers,  "  Voices  of  the  Wind  and  Other  Poems,"  in  which 
he  enshrined  his  best  work.  "The  Picture  on  the  Wall,"  "The 
Poet-Zone,"  and  "  Voices  of  the  Wind  "  are  fine  lyrics,  melodious 
and  strong;  but,  like  all  he  wrote,  containing  a  flavor  of  Poe.  He 
died  some  years  ago,  at  a  ripe  age,  at  the  residence  of  a  son  in  Iowa. 

John  S.  Reid  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  who  located  in  Indiana  at  an 
early  day.  He  was  a  scholar,  a  lawyer  by  profession,  a  politician 
by  choice,  and  a  poet  by  nature.  He  was  a  lover  of  Oriental  legend 
and  song,  and  was  especially  enamored  of  Persian  verse,  from  which 
he  made  translations,  especially  from  the  love  songs  of  Hafiz.  His 
longest  and,  perhaps,  most  ambitious  poem  was  "  Gulzar,  or  The 
Rose  Bower,"  which  was,  both  in  the  plot  of  the  story  and  in  its 
treatment,  an  imitation  of  Tom  Moore's  "  Lalla  Rookh."  It  was 
published  by  G.  H.  and  J.  P.  Chapman  of  Indianapolis  in  1845,  and 
was,  probably,  the  first  book  of  original  poetry  that  was  both  written 
and  printed  in  the  state. 

With  much  that  was  faulty,  the  poem  contained  some  exceedingly 
fine  passages.  His  shorter  poems  were  all  tinged  with  Orientalism  ; 
but  some  of  them  were  possessed  of  decided  merit.  Mr.  Reid  prac- 
ticed his  profession  at  Liberty,  Connersville,  and  Indianapolis,  and 
died  in  the  latter  city. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  453 

Alonzo  Rice  was  born  in  Shelby  County,  Indiana,  June  12,  1867. 
He  is  a  teacher  by  profession,  and  spends  his  leisure  hours  in  read- 
ing and  writing.  He  has  contributed  to  many  of  the  leading  news- 
papers and  magazines,  and  is  the  literary  editor  of  the  Sunny  South 
published  at  Atlanta,  Georgia.  He  has  privately  published  a  small 
volume  of  his  poems,  but  has  never  attempted  to  compile  a  book. 
Mr.  Rice  resides  near  Ray's  Crossing,  Indiana. 

Renos  H.  Richards  was  born  September  8,  1866,  at  St.  Patricks- 
burg,  Owen  County,  Indiana.  He  was  graduated  from  the  Spencer 
(Indiana)  High  School  in  1885,  and  received  the  degree  of  A.M. 
from  De  Pauw  University  in  1890.  From  1891  to  1897  he  was 
superintendent  of  the  Spencer  schools,  and  later  was  at  the  head  of 
the  department  of  mathematics  in  the  high  school  of  Battle  Creek, 
Michigan,  where  he  now  resides. 

John  Clark  Ridpath,  LL.D.,  was  born  on  a  farm  in  Putnam  County, 
Indiana,  April  26,  1840.  He  early  developed  an  aptitude  for  study 
and  a  desire  for  scholarly  attainments.  His  parents,  who  were 
intellectual  and  cultured  people,  gave  their  son  such  opportunities 
as  their  means  afforded  for  the  acquirement  of  knowledge.  He  was 
graduated  from  the  Indiana  Asbury —  now  De  Pauw —  University  in 
1863,  with  the  first  honors  of  his  class.  After  his  graduation  he 
taught  in  the  Boone  County  Academy,  and  was  for  three  years 
superintendent  of  the  public  schools  of  Lawrenceburgh,  Indiana. 
In  1869  he  was  tendered  the  chair  of  English  Literature  and  Normal 
Instruction  at  Asbury  University,  and  afterward  made  vice-president 
of  the  faculty,  a  position  which  he  honored  for  many  years. 

It  was  as  an  author  —  historian,  lecturer,  and  poet  —  that  he  won 
most  distinction,  served  his  day  and  generation  most  effectively,  and 
conferred  most  honor  upon  his  native  state.  Dr.  Ridpath  never 
collected  his  poems  into  a  book,  yet  he  wrote  verse  of  such  scope, 
strength,  and  beauty  as  to  warrant  a  ready  and  appreciative  audi- 
ence for  such  a  volume  whenever  it  shall  appear.  He  was  the  editor 
for  a  year  of  the  Arena,  a  Boston  magazine.  From  its  organiza- 
tion he  was  one  of  the  fast  friends  and  promoters  of  the  Western 
Association  of  Writers,  and  was  for  a  time  its  president.  He  also 
belonged  to  many  other  literary  and  educational  bodies. 

Dr.  Ridpath  was  married  to  Hannah  R.  Smythe  of  Putnam  County, 


454 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 


Indiana,  in  December,  1862.  Their  married  life  was  a  happy 
one.  Four  children  survive  him,  all  grown  up  to  manhood  and 
womanhood. 

The  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  was  conferred  upon  Dr.  Ridpath 
by  the  University  of  Syracuse,  New  York,  in  1880.  Dr.  Ridpath 
died  at  the  Presbyterian  Hospital  in  New  York  City,  after  a  long 
illness,  July  31,  1900,  at  the  age  of  sixty  years,  and  lies  buried  in 
the  cemetery  near  his  old  home  in  Greencastle,  Indiana. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley,  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  living  Ameri- 
can poets,  was  born  and  reared  in  Greenfield,  Indiana.  His  father 
was  a  lawyer,  politician,  and,  during  the  war  for  the  Union,  a  soldier, 
with  a  natural  gift  for  poetry  and  oratory.  His  mother  was  a  gentle, 
motherly  woman,  whose  fine  instincts  were  transmitted  to  her  gifted 
son.  Mr.  Riley's  friend  and  admirer,  W.  W.  Pfrimmer,  says  of  him, 
that  "  should  you  ask  of  him  his  age,  he  would  say  that  he  is  '  this 
side  of  forty,1  and  leave  you  to  guess  as  to  the  side."  Riley  is  poet, 
artist,  and  actor  all  in  one ;  but  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  his  masterhood  just  came  to  him.  He  has  attained  it  through 
the  devotion  of  years  to  the  arts  for  which  God  made  him,  and 
by  the  hardest  of  hard  work  and  close  application.  He  is  no  mere 
accident  or  freak,  as  so  many  of  his  alleged  biographers  contend. 
He  is  a  man  of  talent  as  well  as  genius,  and  the  impulses  of  his 
soul  are  always  in  the  right  direction.  There  is  but  one  James 
Whitcomb  Riley. 

Any  adequate  mention  here  of  the  scope  and  character  of  his 
verse  is  impossible  and  would  be  superfluous,  since  he  has  a  national 
reputation,  and  his  poems  are  familiar  to  readers  all  over  the  country. 
His  home  is  on  beautiful  Lockerbie  Street,  in  Indianapolis. 

Miss  Olive  Sanxay  of  Madison,  Indiana,  is  a  talented  young  lady 
just  entering  upon  a  literary  career.  She  has  contributed  to  the 
Indianapolis  Journal 'and  other  papers  poems  of  exceptional  strength 
and  beauty,  which  bespeak  for  their  young  author  a  brilliant  future. 

Miss  Sanxay  is  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  late  Henry  Camp- 
bell Sanxay,  and  was  born  at  Ravenswood,  in  Jefferson  County, 
removing  to  Madison  when  eleven  years  of  age. 

Harry  Jones  Shellman  was  born  in  Westminster,  Maryland, 
September  1,  1843.     He  worked  as  reporter  and  editor  of  various 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  455 

newspapers  in  the  East  until  October,  1868,  when  he  came  to 
Indianapolis,  Indiana,  where  he  was  connected  with  several  news- 
papers and  periodicals  as  editor,  reporter,  or  business  manager. 
He  said  that  he  only  scribbled  verses  for  amusement,  and  rarely 
made  any  effort  to  publish  them.  He  died  in  New  York  City 
where  he  had  been  connected  with  various  humorous  journals. 

John  W.  Shockley,  one  of  the  well-known,  successful  teachers  ot 
Indiana,  was  born  on  a  farm  in  one  of  the  eastern  counties  of  the 
state  several  years  before  the  Civil  War.  He  comes  of  a  poetical 
family  and  inherits  his  genius,  which  he  has  developed  by  careful, 
painstaking  work.  Mrs.  Shockley  is  also  a  student  and  teacher,  and 
they  have  reared  a  family  of  scholars  and  teachers. 

Through  all  — 


■*&■ 


"  The  long  days  of  labor,  and  nights  devoid  of  ease  " 

that  are  consequent  upon  the  life  of  an  earnest,  active  teacher  of  the 
young,  Mr.  Shockley  has  cherished  a  love  of  poetry  and  has  wrought 
many  a  beautiful  fabric  in  verse,  yet  he  does  not  write  rapidly,  and 
works  his  poems  over  and  over  many  times  before  permitting  them 
to  be  subjected  to  the  tests  of  unsympathetic  types. 

A.  E.  Sinks  was  born  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  in  October,  1848,  and  died 
in  Indianapolis,  Indiana,  in  July,  1881.  For  several  years  Mr. 
Sinks  was  connected  with  the  weekly  press  as  critic,  and  his  reviews 
of  art  and  theatrical  matters  made  him  a  conspicuous  writer  in  these 
departments.  He  was  successful  in  literary  work  other  than  that  of 
criticism,  and  some  of  his  productions  took  high  rank  in  literary 
circles.  He  particularly  excelled  in  book  reviews  and  philosophic 
essays,  and  his  occasional  poems  are  strongly  marked  and  original. 

Dr.  Hubbard  M.  Smith  was  born  in  Winchester,  Kentucky,  Sep- 
tember 6,  1820.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  having  to  make  his  own  way 
in  the  world,  he  began  teaching  in  the  country  schools,  and  at  the 
same  time  studying  for  his  chosen  profession  of  medicine.  In  1858 
he  purchased  the  Vincennes  Gazette,  and  used  his  pen  to  aid  the  cause 
of  the  negro  slaves ;  but  after  the  war  began  he  discontinued  the 
newspaper  business  and  resumed  the  practice  of  medicine. 

Dr.  Smith  contributed  many  poems  to  the  newspapers  and  maga- 


456  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

zines  under  a  110m  de  plume,  and  it  was  not  until  recently  that  his 
poems  were  collected  and  published  in  book  form. 

Mrs.  Cornelia  Laws  St.  John  was  the  daughter  of  the  late  M.  C. 
Williams,  of  College  Hill,  Ohio,  where  she  was  born.  She  was 
educated  at  the  Ohio  Female  College. 

She  was  married  to  the  late  John  W.  Laws,  a  merchant  of  Rich- 
mond, Indiana,  in  1857,  and  it  was  during  her  residence  in  that  city 
that  many  of  her  most  popular  poems  were  written. 

Some  years  after  the  decease  of  Mr.  Laws  she  was  again  united 
in  marriage  to  Mr.  St.  John,  and  now  makes  her  home  in  Chicago. 
Throughout  her  life  of  mingled  joy  and  sorrow  she  has  preserved 
her  spirit  of  song,  and  maintained  it  as  a  fountain  of  sweetness 
and  purity.  The  hearts  of  her  friends  went  out  to  her  not  long 
since  in  deepest  sympathy  upon  the  death  of  a  daughter,  whose  rare 
powers  as  an  artist  had  already  won  wide  recognition.  There  are 
but  few  sweeter  songs  in  the  language  than  Mrs.  St.  John's  "  Six 
Little  Feet  on  the  Fender." 

Miss  Evaleen  Stein,  daughter  of  the  late  John  A.  Stein,  resides 
with  her  mother  in  her  native  city,  La  Fayette,  Indiana.  Her  love 
and  appreciation  of  nature,  and  her  skill  in  descriptive  verse,  have 
made  her  poetry  justly  popular,  and  she  is  to-day  the  peer  of  the 
best  among  the  poets  of  natural  scenery  and  conditions.  Her  first 
volume  of  poems  was  published  a  year  ago,  by  Copeland  and  Day, 
of  Boston,  under  the  title  "  One  Way  to  the  Woods,"  the  first 
edition  being  exhausted  in  a  few  weeks.  Other  books  from  her  pen 
are  already  eagerly  anticipated.  Though  young,  she  has  already 
earned  a  place  among  the  most  gifted  women  of  the  land. 

Dr.  Solomon  P.  Stoddard  is  a  graduate  in  both  law  and  medicine, 
but  a  physician  by  "  natural  selection, "  and  fond  of  his  profession. 
He  writes  fitfully  and  cares  little  for  publicity,  but  his  "  June  Blos- 
soms, "  "  Gone  Before, "  and  "  Floridiana, "  have  attracted  con- 
siderable attention.     His  home  is  in  Indianapolis. 

George  Stout  is  a  young  newspaper  man  of  Marion,  Indiana,  who 
has  contributed  many  pleasant  poems  to  the  Indianapolis  and  local 
papers.  His  work  not  only  shows  poetic  fire,  but  careful,  pains- 
taking execution. 

Mrs.  Juliet  V.  Strauss  is  a  native  of  Rockville,  Indiana.     She  has 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES.  457 

been  associate  editor  of  the  Rockville  Trib:ine  —  of  which  her  hus- 
band is  editor  —  for  a  number  of  years,  and  for  seven  or  eight  years 
has  conducted  a  column  under  the  head  of  "Squibs  and  Sayings," 
which  has  been  a  great  success.  Her  literary  work  has  been  of  a 
desultory  character,  and  has  never  interfered  in  the  least  with  her 
household  duties.  She  has  found  time,  however,  to  write  several 
excellent  short  stories  and  poems,  contributing  to  the  Indianapolis 
Journal,  the  Woman's  Home  Companion,  and  other  periodicals. 
Mrs.  Strauss's  verse  is  sprightly,  yet  sane  and  wholesome,  and  indi- 
cates great  skill  and  care  in  its  production. 

Mrs.  Martina  Swafford  of  Terre  Haute,  is  a  native  of  Indiana, 
who,  for  many  years,  has  been  closely  identified  with  the  literary 
interests  of  the  state.  She  is  one  of  the  foremost  workers  in,  and 
a  charter  member  of,  the  Western  Association  of  Writers.  Her 
volume  of  verses,  entitled  "Wytch  Elm,"  contains  many  sweet  and 
beautiful  poems,  which  entitle  the  author  to  rank  among  the  best 
poets  of  the  state. 

Dr.  Henry  William  Taylor  was  born  in  Lexington,  Virginia. 
After  the  Civil  War,  in  which  he  was  a  soldier  for  the  South,  he 
studied  medicine,  and  for  many  years  managed  a  large  and  suc- 
cessful practice.  Hecontributed  to  medical  and  general  literature, 
many  of  his  papers  and  essays  showing  a  wide  acquaintance  with 
human  character  and  natural  conditions.  His  best  work  is  his 
poetry,  in  which  he  shows  great  power  of  description.  His  dia- 
lect verse  represents  a  phase  of  dialect  spoken  by  people  from  the 
South  who  settled  in  the  middle  West,  and  differs  materially  from 
the  Hoosier  dialect  of  Mr.  Riley's  people.  Mr.  Taylor  died  at  his 
home  in  Sullivan,  Indiana,  January  29,  1901. 

Howard  Singleton  Taylor,  LL.B.,  now  city  prosecutor  of  Chicago, 
was  born  in  Lexington,  Virginia.  As  a  lad  he  took  part  in  the 
Civil  War,  enlisting  in  the  Federal  army  and  doing  service  for  the 
Union  cause,  while  one  brother  and  many  of  his  friends  and  kindred 
were  wearing  the  gray  and  serving  the  Confederate  cause. 

He  studied  law  and  was  graduated  from  the  Law  School  of  Cincin- 
nati with  highest  honors.  After  leaving  Indiana  he  located  for  the 
practice  of  his  profession  in  Chicago,  where  he  has  succeeded  and 


458 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 


rapidly  won  his  way.  For  the  past  two  years  he  has  been  city  prose- 
cutor. The  possessor  of  poetical  gifts,  such  as  required  to  produce 
the  famous  "Man  with  the  Musket"  or  "The  Soldier  of  Peace," 
needs  no  wordy  praise ;  but  many  will  regret  that  he  has  not  given 
more  of  his  life  to  the  production  of  poetry  for  which  he  has  such 
a  fine  equipment. 

Dr.  John  Newton  Taylor  was  born  in  Lexington,  Indiana.  He 
attended  the  University  of  Indiana,  and  was  graduated  with  first 
honors  from  the  Indiana  Medical  College.  He  has  been  for  many 
years  a  successful  practitioner  at  Crawfordsville,  Indiana.  The  high 
standing  which  he  has  attained  in  his  profession  is  indicated  by 
the  facts  that  he  has  been  president  of  the  International  Health 
Association  and  of  the  Indiana  State  Board  of  Health.  His  devo- 
tion to  his  professional  studies  and  duties  has  prevented  him  from 
giving  that  attention  to  literature  which  his  genius  would  doubt- 
less have  enabled  him  to  do  with  large  success.  He  has,  how- 
ever, written  much  good  verse,  some  of  which  will  serve  to  keep 
his  memory  green  when  his  more  practical  toils  shall  have  been 
forgotten. 

Miss  Minnetta  Theodora  Taylor,  A.M.,  was  born  in  Illinois.  She 
is  a  graduate  of  De  Pauw  University,  and  during  her  college  course 
received  first  honor  in  modern  languages,  first  Latin  prize,  and  high- 
est general  grades.  She  reads  seventeen  languages,  is  joint  author 
of  several  language  text-books,  and  contributes  to  Spanish-American 
periodicals  and  general  literature.  Miss  Taylor's  critical  papers  and 
essays  are  always  listened  to  with  great  attention.  She  has  a  won- 
derful command  of  language,  and  is  greatly  admired  for  her  readiness 
as  a  public  speaker,  and  the  fact  that,  even  when  most  unprepared, 
her  English  is  almost  faultless.  Her  poetry  like  "  good  wine,  needs 
no  bush." 

Tucker  Woodson  Taylor  was  born  December  22,  1854,  in  Green- 
castle,  Indiana.  He  graduated  at  Asbury  (De  Pauw)  University  in 
1878.  In  1878-1879  he  was  a  tutor  at  Forest  Academy,  Kentucky. 
From  1880  to  1884  he  was  Hon.  W.  C.  De  Pauw's  private  secretary, 
and  from  1888  to  1897  private  secretary  to  Dr.  John  Clark  Ridpath. 
The  inclination  to  write  poetry  came  to  him  in  1887,  continuing 
intermittingly  at  first,  but  for  the  last  three  or  four  years  almost 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  459 

without  break.  He  takes  pleasure  in  saying  that  Dr.  Ridpath  was 
an  inspiration  and  a  great  help  in  the  development  of  his  literary 
talent.  While  he  has  been  absent  considerably  from  Greencastle, 
he  has  always  considered  that  his  home.  His  pen  names  have  been 
"William  T.  Hunter'1  and  "  Civis  Americanus." 

Mrs.  E.  S.  L.  Thompson,  daughter  of  Judge  R.  N.  Lamb,  of  Indi- 
anapolis, Indiana,  was  born  in  Vevay,  Indiana,  August  7,  1848. 
Her  mother  was  the  daughter  of  the  talented  Julia  L.  Dumont. 
Mrs.  Thompson  writes  well  in  both  prose  and  verse,  more  readily  in 
the  latter,  though  she  enjoys  writing  short  stories.  She  has  con- 
tributed to  St.  Nicholas,  Youth's  Companion,  Lippincotfs,  Harper's 
Young  People,  and  other  magazines  of  prominence.  Her  greatest 
success  has  been  in  the  realm  of  children's  literature,  telling  stories 
and  writing  poems  that  are  entertaining  to  the  little  ones.  Her 
versatility  is  illustrated  by  the  fact  that  she  has  been  quite  popular 
on  the  lecture  platform,  lecturing  upon  a  variety  of  subjects  with 
marked  success. 

Mrs.  Thompson  resides  in  the  city  of  Muncie,  surrounded  by  her 
happy  family. 

Maurice  Thompson  was  born  at  Fairfield,  Indiana,  September  9, 
1844,  but  his  parents  removed  to  northern  Georgia  during  his 
childhood.  He  was  at  that  time  so  thoroughly  southern  in  senti- 
ment that  he  enlisted  and  fought  in  the  Confederate  army.  At  the 
close  of  the  war  he  returned  to  Indiana  and  engaged  in  the  practice 
of  law  at  Crawfordsville,  where  he  died  February  15,  1901. 

Mr.  Thompson's  first  book,  "  Hoosier  Mosaics,"  appeared  in 
1875.  Since  that  time  he  has  published  a  large  number  of  volumes 
of  prose  and  verse,  among  which  are  "  The  Witchery  of  Archery," 
"A  Tallahassee  Girl,"  "His  Second  Campaign,"  "  Songs  of 
Fair  Weather,"  "By-Ways  and  Bird  Notes,"  "At  Lincoln's 
Grave,"  "Alice  of  Old  Vincennes,"  etc.  No  words  of  commen- 
dation can  add  to  the  popularity  of  Mr.  Thompson's  graceful  prose 
and  melodious  verse. 

William  H.  Thompson,  like  his  brother  Maurice,  was  born  in 
Indiana,  but  spent  much  of  his  childhood  and  early  youth  in  the 
South,  and  when  but  a  mere  lad  enlisted  in  the  Confederate  army, 
and  served  with  gallantry  and  courage.  After  the  war  he  returned 
to  his  native  state,  accepted  the  situation,  and  soon  found  himself 


460  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

overflowing  with  love  of  country  and  patriotic  devotion  to  its  insti- 
tutions. He  is  a  lawyer  by  profession,  and  was  long  a  practitioner 
at  the  Crawfordsville  Indiana  bar. 

At  present  he  is  located  at  Seattle,  in  the  state  of  Washington,  as 
the  attorney  of  the  Great  Northern  Railroad  Company. 

Mr.  Thompson  is  a  writer  of  much  force  and  ability,  and  a  born 
lyrist.  His  "  Bond  of  Blood  "  and  "  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg"  are 
justly  considered  as  among  the  very  finest  patriotic  and  war  poems 
ever  written  by  an  American  poet. 

Mrs.  Laura  M.  Hawley  Thurston  was  born  in  Norfolk,  Connecticut, 
in  1 8 12.  She  prepared  herself  for  the  profession  of  teaching,  and 
removed  to  New  Albany,  Indiana,  to  take  charge  of  an  academy  for 
young  women,  but  in  1839  sne  was  married  to  Franklin  Thurston 
of  that  city,  and  abandoned  her  profession.  Mrs.  Thurston  pos- 
sessed rare  poetical  genius,  and  her  work  was  all  of  a  high  order  of 
merit,  and  won  for  her  a  place  in  letters  beside  Prentice,  Cary,  Gal- 
lagher, Mrs.  Welby,  and  others,  who  were  then  making  the  West 
vocal  with  their  melodious  singing.  "  On  Crossing  the  Alleghanies" 
and  "  The  Green  Hills  of  My  Fatherland  "  were,  and  are  yet,  very 
popular  poems.     She  died  in  1842. 

Mrs.  Ollah  Perkins  Toph  of  Indianapolis,  Indiana,  has  written 
stories,  sketches,  and  verse,  and,  recently,  music.  The  serious 
side  of  life  always  appeals  to  her,  and  her  verses,  although  hopeful, 
are  generally  of  a  thoughtful  nature,  teaching  us  that  our  sorrows 
and  disappointments  are  but  steps  to  lead  the  soul  to  its  ultimate 
development. 

Newton  A.  Trueblood  is  descended  from  a  noted  Quaker  family  of 
North  Carolina  that  early  took  root  in  Indiana  and  accomplished 
its  full  share  in  laying  the  foundations  of  the  commonwealth.  Mr. 
Trueblood  is  the  possessor  of  a  good  education,  is  a  great  lover 
of  books  and  art,  and  withal  a  devoted  member  and  worker  in 
the  peaceful  society  of  his  fathers. 

He  was  for  many  years  engaged  in  business  in  Kokomo,  Indiana, 
but  at  present  lives  quietly  in  a  cosy  and  bookish  home  at  Knights- 
town,  Indiana. 

Mrs.  Trueblood  is  also  greatly  interested  in  the  things  that  are 
so  dear  to  her  husband,  and  their  entire  harmony  of  tastes  and  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES.  461 

happiness  of  their  home  life  are  apparent  to  even  the  chance 
caller.  Mr.  Trueblood  has  written  much  for  publication  over  the 
nom  de  plume  of  "  Frank  Winter,"  but  in  recent  years  signs  most 
of  his  contributions  with  his  own  name.  He  has  published  no 
collection  of  his  writings. 

William  B.  Vickers  was  born  in  Indianapolis,  Indiana,  March  21, 
1838,  and  died  in  Denver,  Colorado,  in  1880.  After  graduating  from 
Asbury  (now  De  Pauw)  University  he  determined  upon  the  news- 
paper business  as  a  career,  and  learned  the  printers'  trade.  He  was 
for  several  years  associated  with  Harry  J.  Shellman  and  William  B. 
Vischer  in  the  management  of  the  Indianapolis  Saturday  Mirror, 
the  best  literary  paper  then  published  in  the  state.  Mr.  Vickers 
was  a  brilliant,  painstaking  writer,  and  a  poet  of  great  gifts,  as  the 
selections  from  his  verse  amply  prove. 

Louise  Esther  Vickroy  (Mrs.  L.  V.  Boyd),  was  born  at  Urbana, 
Ohio,  January  22,  1827.  While  she  was  yet  a  little  child,  the  family 
removed  to  Pennsylvania.  Louise  early  developed  a  love  of  letters. 
By  the  year  i860  she  was  widely  known  for  the  grace  and  strength 
of  her  poetry,  and  was  given  an  honorable  place  in  CoggeshalTs 
"  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West."  Soon  after  the  close  of  the  Civil 
War  she  was  married  to  Dr.  Samuel  S.  Boyd  of  Indiana,  an  army 
surgeon,  who  was  also  a  writer  for  the  press.  Thereafter  her  home 
was  at  Dublin,  Indiana,  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Here 
she  gave  herself  more  largely  to  literary,  benevolent,  and  religious 
work.    Her  present  home  is  near  the  city  of  Philadelphia. 

General  "Lew"  Wallace,  famous  as  the  author  of  "Ben  Hur," 
is  one  of  the  most  splendid  figures  of  our  epoch.  Lawyer,  senator, 
soldier,  consul,  and  author,  he  has  a  varied  faculty,  a  various  and 
commanding  force  of  speech  and  action.  His  "  Fair  God,"  a  story 
of  the  conquest  of  Mexico,  was  read  with  admiration  long  before 
"  Ben  Hur "  was  written ;  but  it  possessed  no  special  charm  of 
prophecy,  and  "Ben  Hur"  had  almost  run  its  little  course  when  its 
genius  was  discovered,  and  the  sales,  which  had  ceased  at  3000, 
again  began,  until  at  least  300,000  copies  have  been  sold.  Then 
came  "  The  Life  of  Benjamin  Harrison,  "  "  The  Boyhood  of  Christ," 
and  "The  Prince  of  India";  but  "  Ben  Hur"  is  still  the  keystone 
in  the  arch  of  Wallace's  fame. 


462  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

Mrs.  Susan  E.  Wallace,  wife  of  "Lew  "  Wallace,  is  also  a  writer. 
Her  poem,  "  The  Patter  of  Little  Feet,"  has  been  read  by  thousands 
of  eyes  and  hearts,  and  to  her  books  belongs  a  quality  that  entitles 
her  to  a  high  place  in  Indiana's  pantheon  of  authors.  "The  Storied 
Sea"  was  published  in  1884;  "Ginevra,  or  the  Old  Oak  Chest,"  in 
1887;  "The  Land  of  the  Pueblos,"  in  1888;  "The  Repose  in 
Egypt.11  in  1888.  The  home  of  General  and  Mrs.  Wallace  in  Craw- 
fordsville  is  exceedingly  rich  in  all  that  is  dear  to  the  hearts  of  edu- 
cated and  cultured  people. 

Judge  William  DeWitt  Wallace  was  born  in  La  Fayette,  Indiana, 
November  19,  1838.  He  attended  Waveland  Academy,  and  was 
afterward  graduated  from  Jefferson  College,  Canonsburgh,  Pennsyl- 
vania. When  the  Civil  War  began  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  Com- 
pany C,  Fortieth  Regiment,  Indiana  Volunteers,  and  while  in  the 
field  was  made  captain,  but  was  wounded  at  Stone  River  and  was 
compelled  to  retire  from  the  service.  He  studied  law  and  practised 
at  the  bar  until  1894,  when  he  was  elected  judge  of  the  Superior 
Court  and  was  reelected  in  1898.     He  died  January  28,  1901. 

Judge  Wallace  found  time  for  much  literary  work.  In  1SS6  he 
published  "  Love's  Ladder,"  a  novel  which  enjoyed  a  good  sale, 
and  later  "  Idle  Hours,"  a  volume  of  poems,  appeared  from  the 
press  of  the  Bowen-Merrill  Company. 

Luther  Dana  Waterman,  A.M.,  M.D.,  Indianapolis,  was  born  at 
Wheeling,  Virginia,  November  21,  1830.  His  literary  education 
was  obtained  at  Miami  University,  Oxford,  Ohio,  and  his  medical 
education  at  the  Medical  College  of  Ohio,  where  he  was  graduated 
in  1853.  During  the  Civil  War  he  was  surgeon  of  the  Eighth  Indiana 
Cavalry  (Thirty-ninth  Indiana  Regiment)  and  medical  director  of 
the  First  Division,  Twentieth  Army  Corps,  Department  of  the 
Cumberland.  In  1864  he  located  in  Indianapolis,  and  was  professor 
of  Principles  and  Practice  in  the  Indiana  Medical  College.  He  was 
president  of  the  Indiana  State  Medical  Society  in  1877. 

His  volume  "Phantoms  of  Life,"  contains  many  stanzas  that  are 
notable  for  philosophical  insight  and  purity  of  thought. 

Mrs.  Harriet  Lancaster  Westcott  (Gwendoline)  was  born  in  New 
Carlisle,  Indiana.  Her  father,  the  Rev.  Henry  Lancaster,  was  a 
learned  man  of  refined  tastes,  whose  qualities  she  seems  to  have  in- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES.  463 

herited.  She  received  her  education  in  the  New  Carlisle  Collegiate 
Institute  and  at  St.  Mary's  Academy,  Notre  Dame,  Indiana.  She  lived 
and  wrote  in  Indiana,  inspired  "  by  wood  and  stream  and  flowing 
water,"  and  meeting  with  deserved  success  until  1885,  when  she  was 
married  to  C.  A.  Westcott,  a  Western  merchant.  Her  married  life 
is  spoken  of  as  a  most  happy  one.  The  present  home  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Westcott  is  at  Beulah,  Colorado,  where,  still  in  the  prime 
of  life,  she  continues  to  sing  such  songs  as  the  wonderful  scenery 
of  her  adopted  state  inspires. 

Mrs.  L.  May  Wheeler  was  born  in  Winchendon,  Massachusetts, 
February  25,  1835.  She  came  to  Indiana  to  follow  her  profession 
as  a  journalist,  and  worked  for  a  time  on  the  staff  of  the  Indianapolis 
Sentinel,  and  contributed  to  Chicago  and  Minneapolis  papers. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  was  possessed  of  versatile  talents  that  found  ex- 
pression in  her  literary  work  in  the  form  of  short  poems,  graphic 
sketches,  and  editorial  work.  She  was  recording  secretary  of  the 
Western  Association  of  Writers  in  1889,  and  in  connection  with 
Miss  Mary  E.  Cardwill  compiled  the  excellent  souvenir  of  that 
year.     She  died  June  24,  1891. 

Miss  Louisa  Wickersham  was  born  in  Henry  County,  Indiana, 
January  6,  1849.  She  is  a  graduate  of  Spiceland  Academy,  has 
taught  in  the  public  schools,  and  been  a  deputy  clerk  of  the  Circuit 
Court  of  her  native  county  for  four  years.  She  is  also  active  in 
church  and  Sabbath  school  work,  and  interested  in  the  temperance 
cause  and  in  women's  clubs  and  other  movements  for  the  benefit  of 
women.  Her  poems  have  been  majnly  contributed  to  the  American 
Friend,  the  organ  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  published  at  Phila- 
delphia. 

Forceythe  Willson  and  Elizabeth  Conwell  Willson,  poets,  united 
in  life,  nor  long  separated  by  death,  lie  buried  side  by  side  in  the 
little  graveyard  at  Laurel,  Franklin  County,  Indiana,  where  Mrs. 
Willson  was  born  and  reared,  among  the  lovely  valleys  and  majestic 
hills  through  which  the  Whitewater  makes  its  way  to  the  greater 
Miami. 

Forceythe  Willson  was  born  at  Little  Genesee,  New  York,  April 
10,  1S37.  By  the  death  of  his  parents  he  was  left  an  orphan  with 
the  care  of  three  younger  children  when  he  was  but  thirteen  years 


464  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

of  age,  at  New  Albany,  Indiana,  which  had  been  the  family's  home 
for  the  previous  four  or  five  years.  He  seems,  however,  to  have  had 
the  means  for  his  and  their  support  and  training.  He  studied  as 
his  always  feeble  health  would  permit,  at  Antioch,  Harvard,  and 
Oberlin  colleges,  but  was  again  at  his  home  in  New  Albany  by  the 
fall  of  1862,  where  he  organized  a  militia  company  to  resist  the 
threatened  Confederate  invasion  of  Indiana,  and  was  chosen  captain. 
Near  the  close  of  that  year  he  wrote  his  famous  "  Old  Sergeant," 
which  was  published  anonymously,  as  a  Carrier's  Address,  in  George 
D.  Prentice's  Louisville  Jotcmalj  in  the  issue  for  January  1,  1863. 

Its  success  was  immediate.  The  young  author  was  hunted  up, 
and  his  fame  as  a  poet  established,  so  that  when  he  removed,  tem- 
porarily, to  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  in  1864,  to  put  a  brother  in 
Harvard  College,  he  was  welcomed  and  honored  by  the  great  Boston 
circle  of  poets  and  authors  that  was  then  comparatively  unbroken. 

In  September,  1863,  Mr.  Willson  was  married  to  Elizabeth  Con- 
well  Smith,  a  granddaughter  of  the  noted  pioneer  Methodist 
preacher,  Rev.  James  Conwell.  Miss  Smith  was  also  a  poet  of  rare 
spiritual  insight,  and  the  union  was  most  auspicious,  but  alas  !  too 
soon  broken.  After  little  more  than  a  year  of  mutual  love  and 
mutual  toils,  Mrs.  Willson  died  at  their  cottage  in  Cambridge,  Massa- 
chusetts, October  13,  1864,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  years  and  six 
months.  Mr.  Willson  died  February  2,  1867,  being  a  little  less  than 
thirty  years  of  age.  Thus  passed  two  of  the  most  gifted  and  promis- 
ing poets  whose  mornings  ever  opened  upon  Indiana  soil.  After  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Willson  her  husband  collected  her  poems,  and  at  a 
little  later  date  his  own,  and  published  them  through  a  Boston  firm, 
each  forming  a  thin  volume,  but  rich  in  the  fine  quality  of  its  poems. 

Mrs.  Bessie  H.  Woolford's  home  is  in  Madison,  Indiana.  She  is 
the  widow  of  a  Union  soldier,  but  is  yet  in  the  heyday  of  life.  She 
collected  and  published  a  small  brochure  of  her  poems,  a  few  years 
ago,  under  the  title  of  "  Purple  Asters  and  Goldenrods,"  which  found 
favor  with  a  wide  circle  of  friends,  and  one  of  the  poems  it  con- 
tained, "  The  Ohio  River,"  has  won  more  extended  popularity. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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A  A      000  279  605    o 


